


Baker Street: Part XVI

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [31]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Starsky & Hutch, Supernatural, Swan Lake & Related Fandoms
Genre: 20th Century, 221B Baker Street, Age Difference, Army, Banking, Berkshire, Boats and Ships, Bullying, Deception, Derbyshire, Devonshire, Edwardian Period, England (Country), English Civil War, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Framing Story, Fraud, Friendship, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Hair, Happy Ending, Honor, Hotels, Inheritance, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, Kent - Freeform, LARPing, London, M/M, Male Prostitution, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Plans, Poisoning, Police, RMS Titanic, Religion, Retirement, Rituals, Salt, Singing, Sussex, Treasure Hunting, Trifle, Wales, Yorkshire, gold - Freeform, mining, poland - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1901-1902. And now, the end is near.... but there's still plenty of challenges waiting before the dynamic duo face their final curtain. There are Devonian damsels, a scheming lounge-lizard, teasing eunuchs, a handsome prince, stolen gold, bigamous sailors, soul singers, delicious trifle, a Greek Chorus, a diminishing number of Garridebs, and a treasure-hunt as Sherlock prepares to reveal all.No, not that way. That was last night. As well as the two nights before that!
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson & David Starsky, Lucifer/OMC, Prince Siegfried/Benno, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dissyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissyone/gifts), [ourinfinities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourinfinities/gifts).



** 1902 **

**Interlude: Tunnel Of Love**  
by Master Tantalus Holmes  
_Just because one is a eunuch does not mean... you know_

**Case 327: The Adventure Of The Murderous Savages**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The perfect murder – but justice gets there in the end_

**Case 328: The Adventure Of The Soul Singer**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_David Starsky fears the worst about his friend Ken Hutchinson_

**Case 329: The Trifling Case Of Mr. Mortimer Maberley**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A trifling matter of trifle, and Polish sausage_

**Interlude: Transformation**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Some people change, and sometimes quite quickly_

**Case 330: The Saint Lubbock's Day Case ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A man's character suddenly changes – and Sherlock already has the solution!_

**Case 331: Pro Patria Mori ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Just when you thought Randall Holmes could not sink any lower..._

**Case 332: The Adventure Of Shoscombe Old Place**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Another treasure-hunt, but all that glisters may not be gold_

**Case 333: The Adventure Of Salt And Binegar**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock helps to fulfil a dead man's last wishes_

**Interlude: Double Trouble**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Lucifer finds that 'someone' has double the reason to celebrate_

**Case 334: The Adventure Of Mr. Wolf's Gold**  
by Mr. Peter Wolf, Esquire  
_Swindling a friend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes is NOT a good idea_

**Case 335: The Adventure Of The Three Garridebs**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A will ends in death, and more trouble on a Kentish railway station_

**Interlude: The Promise**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The Big Reveal as Sherlock shows John their future happiness_

**Interlude: The Newcomers**  
by Mr. Humphrey Torrin, Esquire  
 _Not much changes in a quiet English village_

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	2. Interlude: Tunnel Of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Mr. Tantalus Holmes muses on the strangeness of his existence, dark places – and whether he will be able to make it back to the railway-station in one piece!

_[Narration by Mr. Tantalus Holmes, Esquire]_

My Arrangement with Carl – all right, my 'servicing' all but one of his wives so that he could maintain his randy reputation at the expense of The Tantalizer being worked to near breaking-point! – was, I had to admit, pretty good. I went to his country place just outside London every Sunday and met his eunuch guards, Bill and Ben, in their gatehouse which was connected to the main house by a tunnel. One of the twins would smear on the same weird body-rub that Carl used, then I would be smuggled in and see to his ladies. I dare say that some of them thought it weird that the sheikh only ever summonsed them to a pitch-black room, but apparently Carl had spun them some line that that was what his Court Seer had ordained (he had a Court Seer!). Then one of the twins – I could never tell them apart – would walk me back through the tunnels and I would return home.

I made a mistake the first time I went there when I forgot to clean off all the body-rub; my stepfather looked at me suspiciously when I reached home but said nothing. Not that that reassured me; even these days Blaze hardly ever spoke but I had rapidly realized that he was a smart fellow and that I would have to be on my guard to avoid detection. Fortunately I had told Mother about my wanting to become a stationmaster and that a schoolfriend had suggested me to the stationmaster at Rigsby for some experience.

I was certainly getting _loads_ of experience!

Carl, the bastard, laughed when I told him of my mistake but said that he would sort it in future. I wondered at that, but that day when Ben took me back to the gatehouse I arrived to find that Bill had a bath ready, which was great. Except the two horn-dogs insisted on washing me down while they themselves were naked and.... suddenly sex with the ladies was the least of my problems. I was barely able to stand after they had finished with me, and when Ben drove me back to the station I felt every single bump and rut in the damn road! And if I found out who had moved the station to the next county, I would smack them!

The next time, Bill and Ben insisted on applying the body-rub beforehand and.... seriously, were they trying to break me even before I got to the ladies? Well, let them try!

Yes, eunuchs could not... I know. But they could do damn well nearly everything else, and they were damn skilled in what Carl called 'Oriental Practices'. The Tantalizer would otherwise surely have been broken!

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	3. Case 327: The Adventure Of The Murderous Savages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. A curious case which Sherlock, harsh on himself as ever, marked down as a failure on his part as he was unable to bring the guilty to justice. But justice did eventually come to them out of a cold dark night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the murder of Victor Savage.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

_In my time with Sherlock we encountered many criminals and many killers, people who ended someone else's life for a whole variety of reasons. But few chilled me more than in this case, the mysterious death of the sailor Mr. Victor Savage whose own crimes caught up with him and then some. And however deserving that gentleman may have been of his fate, bringing his killers to justice was impossible even for the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes._

_However, that old saying was there for a reason. Justice may have been delayed – in this case for a whole decade – but she was not to be denied._

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“John”, Sherlock said across the breakfast table one morning, “you really must stop writing those cases where people send me letters appealing to my curiosity. If I have one more letter like this I will have to change my address!”

I smiled at his feigned indignation.

“What is it this time?” I asked.

“A Mr. Quentin Bywater of the Middlesex & Surrey Insurance Corporation wishes to avail himself of our services due, and I quote, 'to an irregular occurrence of coincidences'. Honestly!”

“Is that all he says?” I asked. 

“That is apparently his idea of an adequate description”, Sherlock said. “He asks if we might find the time to call on him at his company offices in Euston this morning.”

“Why not?” I said languidly. I was feeling well-disposed to the world in general mainly because the 'Times', showing its usual excellent taste, had seen fit to write a short article praising my latest set of works about my friend. Also they had refrained from decrying my role in matters, though I suspected that that was at least partly due to Sherlock's fierce reaction when they had done that one time. I took the telegram and read it.

“His offices are in Albany Street”, I said. “That is just the other side of Regent's Park. We often walk there so it would not be that much further.”

He snorted in disdain.

“If this turns out to be a simple case of insurance fraud I shall not be pleased!” he said firmly, sipping his fourth coffee of the day and staring at the cup as if it had just descended from Heaven.

It was indeed not a simple case of insurance fraud. Not by a long chalk!

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Mr. Quentin Bywater was, I quickly reckoned, one of those young fellows who had been given far too much responsibility far too soon. I quickly saw that he considered himself to be doing us a favour, not the other way round. I remained silent, however; it was always amusing to watch potential clients shoot themselves in the foot, and this fellow seemed to be ready to do it with both barrels.

“I have to say that the matters in this case are most confidential, gentlemen, most confidential”, he babbled. “Indeed were it not for a most opportune meeting with my dear brother yesterday I would not be in this situation of being able to offer you the chance to participate in this most challenging and perplexing matter. It concerns a certain client of ours – I will call him Mr. Smith – who....”

Sherlock stood up, to the fellow's evident surprise.

“I am afraid that you have misinterpreted the doctor's books, sir”, he said firmly. “I require absolute honesty and complete disclosure of _all_ facts, from _all_ potential clients with absolutely _no_ exceptions, be it royalty or tea-lady. Discretion is of course assured but I cannot be having with aliases at this early stage of affairs. If that is a problem for you, sir, then it is best that we terminate this meeting as of now.”

Mr. Bywater was doing a remarkably accurate impression of a goldfish, clearly stunned that my friend was for some strange reason not at his beck and call. It was really quite comical to see a man's total world view spinning like a demented gyroscope, rather like a two-year-old trying to process that strange word 'no' when heard for the first time (or certain adults doing the same, for that matter!). The fellow shuddered delicately but opened a desk drawer and took out two files, opening the top one.

“I should explain that my brother Oliver and I are twins and started our careers in insurance at the same time, albeit with different companies”, he said. “His company, the Central & West London – a _far_ inferior organization, it goes without saying – is based near Euston Railway Station so we often meet for lunch and, of course, discuss cases. Not by name for _obvious_ reasons.”

“Obviously”, Sherlock said sitting down again. “One must have discretion. Pray continue.”

“Back in January my company acquired a new client”, he said. “One Mrs. Mary Savage of St. Pancras wished to insure her husband's life; he works as a casual ship-hand going wherever there is work. Both she and he were fifty years of age. She came in on January the second and paid her first premium immediately which in itself was unusual; we make a point of encouraging clients to go away and think on matters first. That someone working so far down the social scale could afford such a thing was also thought strange, but naturally our company is exceptionally broad-minded and welcomes everyone.”

 _And welcomes everyone who has money_ , I silently corrected, ignoring the irritating nod from some blue-eyed genius in the vicinity.

“Last month and not long after we had received her third premium, her husband was employed on board the barque 'Calypso' sailing to Gibraltar”, the fellow went on. “Regrettably it was lost with all hands off Cape Trafalgar. Even more regrettably that particular shipping company, for some strange and inexplicable reason, maintains its only records on board its ships so we cannot know if he definitely boarded her although the docks had him on a list of men from whom the ship could take its pick, and there is I suppose the small matter of his and all the other men on board not having returned home since. His widow has put in a claim which we are considering.

“It seems cut and dried to me”, I offered. “What is the problem?”

He fixed me with a pitying look but stopped when Sherlock coughed pointedly and glared sharply at him. The young idiot reddened before continuing.

“The problem, gentlemen”, he said, “is my brother. I mentioned the case to him and he said that an almost identical occurrence had happened to his company of late. Suspecting something was afoot we exchanged details, and it was frankly incredible. A Mrs. _Margaret_ Savage, of King's Cross this time but of about the same age if a notably different appearance, had insured the life of _her_ husband – also Mr. Victor Savage – on the very same day that I received my first visitation. He too had been on the 'Calypso' and had seemingly perished. I do not like it. Something smells wrong.”

A cruel or malicious person would have taken that opportunity to remark on our host's markedly excessive use of _eau de cologne_ (any nearer the fire, and he might well have gone up in flames, which I suppose might have been a bad thing for the building). I bit my lip and 'someone' looked reprovingly at me.

“You have undertaken your own inquiries of course”, Sherlock said. “What have you found out so far?”

“First, the two ladies at least are separate”, he said. “I had someone visit both addresses and the Mrs. Savages in St. Pancras and King's Cross are two different ladies. What with disguises one cannot be sure these days but their heights are at least six inches apart let alone their, ahem, different physicalities. Unfortunately establishing whether either husband was on board the ship when it sank is very difficult. The docks are meant to keep their own set of records for such things but their approach is quite frankly lackadaisical. For some reason they did not seem at all disposed to help me with my inquiries when I turned up in person and _demanded_ their assistance!"

 _I wonder why that was,_ I thought not at all cattily. Another sharp look.

"I have only been able to establish that the docks had two Mr. Victor Savages registered as available for work that day", the fellow said, "though that in itself does not mean that they were actually at the docks. Unfortunately men can register a day in advance and even worse, someone can register for them if they are unavailable. _Most_ unsatisfactory, I am sure you will agree. I cannot definitely say that that the two men were _not_ on that ship and my superior Mr. Featherley is pressing me to conclude the case. It is most vexing.”

I looked at Sherlock, wondering if he was going to take the case or not. With Mr. Bywater's attitude doing him no favours it seemed unlikely, but again he surprised me. 

“I will look into this for you”, he said. “You are aware, of course, that my fees are non-negotiable and that I expect _all_ my expenses to be covered?”

The insurance agent looked uncomfortable at the idea of parting with actual money, but nodded his agreement. 

“Excellent”, Sherlock smiled collecting up the papers on the table. “We shall take these and examine them, then decide upon our next course of action.”

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The following day we took an early cab-ride to King's Cross. If it was not for the unseasonable hour I might have expected Sherlock to have wanted to interviewed one or both of the ladies in the matter, but instead we went to the station and boarded a Great Northern Railway express.

“I wish to understand these two men better”, Sherlock explained once we were safely in our first-class carriage. “Assuming it is two and not one, that is. I could of course ask at the docks but on checking the shipping lists I saw that the St. Pancras Mr. Savage's last ship, the steamship 'Dodecanesia', is currently in the port of Hull. I am hoping that Captain Ivan Kissinger will be able to throw some light on the man that he recently employed.”

The journey passed uneventfully, and we were soon pulling into the North Eastern Railway station in the East Riding port. A short cab-ride took us to the 'Dodecanesia', a barque which was in rather better condition that many other vessels nearby and had men working all around her. We went on board and a sailor showed us to the captain's quarters. 

I was quite surprised by what we found. I had always thought sailors a licentious bunch but the room we were shown to could (the portholes apart) have been that of a parish priest anywhere in the British Isles. Captain Kissinger was despite his Christian name as English as we were, a tall and very solid bearded fellow of about forty years of age with what seemed to be a permanent look of severity on his face. Then again, in his post and with sailors being what they are, I should probably have looked much the same. 

“Yes, I recall Savage”, he said, a tone of disapproval clear in his voice. “One of those who would have had a girl in every port if he could have gotten away with it. I remember how surprised I was when he said that he was married. It rather lowered my opinion of the fairer sex, I have to say.”

“Were you aware that his ship went down last month?” Sherlock asked.

“No”, he said. “Which ship?”

“The 'Calypso', off Cape Trafalgar”, Sherlock said. 

The captain sighed.

“I feared that he was tempting the Fates”, he said wryly, “for all that they say we sailors are too superstitious. He said once that that wife of his – Peg – was saving every penny that she could in case the worst happened. He was always going on about not getting enough beer money which was typical of the rogue. He said once that she was more likely to wear herself out cleaning that he was to go down at sea. Yet now he has done just that.”

Sherlock seemed surprised at that for some reason but did not push whatever he was thinking. After a few more questions we said our goodbyes and disembarked, returning to the station. Once we were on the train he spent some time looking through the files, saying nothing.

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“You know something”, I said. 

“I cannot be certain”, he said. However the lives of these two men puzzle me.”

“What about them?” I asked.

“The St. Pancras Mr. Savage to start with”, he said. “He went on at least three voyages in the year before his fatal one, all last year; there may have been more but those we cannot be sure about so let us stick to what we actually know. In March and April he was sailing to various Irish ports and the Isle of Man, in July he went over to the Netherlands and Germany, and in October he was on the 'Dodecanesia' to Spain and back. This January Mrs. Mary Savage takes out an insurance policy on him and he rather obligingly dies just two months later. She is now a relatively rich woman or will be once the claim goes through.”

“You think that it will go through?” I asked.

“I cannot see how the company can turn it down”, he said. “Unless they reason that she might not want to risk spending money on a lawyer and then losing, but it is common knowledge that the courts tend not to favour insurance companies unless there is clear evidence of fraud on the claimant's part. Even the threat of publicity may make them decide to back down, the public does not take well to greedy businessmen in this or in any age and the newspapers will always side with a David over a Goliath."

He turned to the other folder.

"Then there is the King's Cross Mr. Savage. He too had at least three voyages before he met his doom. He spent most of the winter employed on a whaler in Norway, sailed to Greece and back in May and early June, and come autumn he is employed on a schooner out of Great Yarmouth. The same day that Mrs. Mary Savage in St. Pancras insures her husband Victor's life the other Mrs. Margaret Savage in nearby King's Cross does exactly the same to _her_ husband Victor – and they both become rich widows courtesy of the same wreck.”

“I suppose that the same sort of people employ casual seamen each time”, I said. “They might likely be employed – or not – at similar times. Though it is certainly odd that two men who died on the same ship had the same name, especially a less common one.”

He shook his head.

“I have an idea”, he said. “I think that tomorrow we will go to St. Pancras.”

“We are almost going there now”, I pointed out. “Why not call in on the way back?”

“Because tomorrow is Sunday”, he said, “and I think that we will be more likely to catch the person that I wish to interview.”

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I assumed not unnaturally that when we arrived in the St. Pancras area just after lunch the following day we were to meet that area's Mrs. Savage. We did indeed drive to Lupin Terrace, but rather than go to number forty-one Sherlock led me into the local shop where he purchased a newspaper and made idle talk with the shop-assistant, who apparently felt that her scowling husband standing right next to her was no reason not to simper at some only moderately presentable stranger. One who still had that damnably annoying way of not-smirking far too loudly! 

"Was there a reason for that?" I asked not at all snippily. He not-smirked some more, the bastard!

“We need to go to number eight”, he said. “According to the lady there, 'that old bag Mrs. Knowsley is the nosiest cat in the neighbourhood'.”

I smiled at his impression and we walked the short distance down the street to the house in question.

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Mrs. Kitty Knowsley was about fifty-five years of age, short, wore pince-nez, and squinted uncertainly at us even after Sherlock presented his card. I supposed that I should have been glad that she was not simpering at my man. It made a nice change.

“You are clearly a lady of intelligence”, Sherlock began, “so I will not beat around the bush. I am investigating an insurance claim by one of your neighbours, a Mrs. Savage. I am afraid” – he sighed theatrically – “that the insurance company is being _difficult_ and is endeavouring to find reasons not to pay out. I need to find out anything about Mrs. Savage that will help expedite the claim.”

“Are you working for the company?” she asked, clearly dubious.

“I am working for justice”, Sherlock said. “If the claim is just, then I will move heaven and earth to make sure that they meet it fully and promptly. If it is _un_ just, then I will move heaven and earth to oppose it. As your house is so well-positioned in regard to hers, I wondered if you had seen anything out of the ordinary of late?”

I had often remarked that Sherlock could charm almost any member of the opposite sex. This one I thought would be a harder nut to crack – but then I saw her visibly relaxing. 

“If I tell you what I know, it will be in confidence?” she asked.

“As a Father confessor”, he assured her. She nodded.

“All right”, she said. “I can tell you two things. First, she had a man visit her the day before her husband came back the last time. A sailor from the way he walked; they all roll a bit. He only stayed about ten or fifteen minutes, no time for any funny business and besides, he didn't look the sort.”

“May I ask how he was dressed?” Sherlock asked. She looked surprised at the question.

“Funny you should ask that”, she said. “That was why I noticed him; way smarter than any tar I've ever known. He didn't want to be seen either; he went down to the end of the road and out through the park rather than back this way, which is a long way to get to the railway-station. If I hadn't have happened to have been cleaning the front step at the time I'd have missed him.”

 _Cleaning the front step_ , I thought cattily. _How many times she had had to clean it before the smart sailor had left?_

Sherlock shot me another warning look. I did not grind my teeth in frustration.

“The other thing was Mr. Savage himself”, Mrs. Knowsley said. “He did something a bit odd; my daughter reads those stories of yours doctor so I know it's sometimes the little things that count. You see, he always left his house at the same time each day he was home; regular as clockwork he was. Except that last day when he left early and went down the road, not up.”

“Could he have done as the visitor did and have gone the other way?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“He always came up the road”, she said. “Man of habit. To get to the docks he would've had to double back round Bluebell Street. I don't see any reason why he would've done that for the first time in his life. And the last.”

“How odd”, I said. 

“We thank you for sparing the time to see us”. Sherlock said. “I do not suppose you happen to know whether Mrs. Savage is at home today?”

Mrs. Knowsley looked across at the mantle-piece clock.

“She does a big clean-through for a gentleman in Warren Street on Sunday mornings, so no.” She hesitated before continuing. “Of course an old lady like me does not know what goes on behind closed doors, gentlemen, but I might offer you some advice. Houses like the ones round here may be mean and cramped, but everyone is proud of their back gardens.”

I looked at her expecting more, but apparently that was it. Sherlock bowed to her. 

“I shall bear that in mind”, he promised.

I turned to lead the way out but definitely caught a simper from the woman as I did so. I did not bother to hide the eye-roll. I could not take him anywhere!

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We returned to the head of the street and I fully expected Sherlock to hire a cab. Instead he went round to the narrow alley that ran along the back of the terraced houses, a dank place which was deserted this Sabbath morn. 

“What are we looking for?” I asked.

“Mrs. Savage's house”, he said. “Mrs. Knowsley knows rather more than she had told us although she was gracious enough to provide us with a clue. Since Mrs. Savage is absent I would like to take the chance to examine her back garden.”

Only some of the back gates were marked with numbers but fortunately it was enough of them to work out by deduction as to which was number forty-one. Sherlock slipped in quietly and I followed him. We found ourselves in a small garden with a shed that took up nearly a quarter of it. There was a well-kept flower-bed along one side, a narrow path next to it and a tiny lawn between the shed and the house that looked surprisingly well cared-for and that I could have crossed with three good strides either way. 

“I think that we have seen enough here”, Sherlock said much to my surprise. “Come.”

I was surprised but then I supposed there was little else to see, although I had expected him to try to enter the shed. We returned to the street to catch a cab home.

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“The case is closed.”

I looked at Sherlock in surprise. It was late the following morning in Baker Street and he looked more than a little disgruntled. I stood up and went over to him, massaging his shoulders and causing him to let out a deep sigh.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“I wired Mr. Bywater yesterday”, he said. “In light of my low opinion of him as a human being I stated what my expenses in the case had been and that I was ready to inform him of my findings. He sent a cheque round this morning.”

I continued massaging him. “And?” I prompted.

“He has deducted a sum of money because, and I quote, 'we did not consider your visit to Kingston-upon-Hull at all necessary'. He wants to come here this afternoon to learn the outcome of the case.”

“Which is?” I asked.

We were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Sherlock smiled and rolled his shoulders.

“That will be our guest”, he said. “Would you greet them and make them comfortable, John?”

I gave his shoulders one last squeeze and walked over to the door to meet our guest. Moments later Mrs. Rockland showed in..... Mrs. Kitty Knowsley.

“I received your invitation, sir”, she said to Sherlock, taking a seat. “I believe you said that you were working for the insurance company in Mrs. Savage's case?”

He smiled.

“I believe I rather said that I was working for justice”, he said. “The subsequent actions of that company, coupled with what I believe to have happened, have caused me to reach a decision. I thought it only courteous to invite you here to share it.”

“Thank you, sir”, she said.

“I will later be informing the insurance company that the coincidence of two identically-named sailors having their lives insured for vast sums by their wives on the same day and then both dying in the same shipwreck within a threemonth was indeed just that”, he said. “Coincidences do happen, I am told.”

“Indeed they do”, she said. She looked at him almost playfully. “Are you _certain_ that this was one of them, sir?”

Sherlock sat back and pressed his fingers together. 

“I had a case quite recently”, he said. “A sailor, living down to the reputation as to what sailors are, had contrived to marry two women who lived not that far apart. He had no children with either of them, which I suppose was a blessed relief, but is it not truly said that your sins will find you out?”

“It is so said”, she agreed.

“It then chanced to be this sailor's exceptional bad luck to be employed on a ship whose captain exercised a strict moral code”, Sherlock went on. “Now, the problem with living two lives is that almost inevitably one slips up from time to time. Although masquerading as the man who lived with a wife in St. Pancras, one day he used the name of the wife in King's Cross in one of his conversations. The captain was a sharp fellow; he made some inquiries and discovered the truth.”

“He was as I said a deeply moral man. He decided that the next time he was in London, he would call on the wife in St. Pancras and inform her of her husband's perfidy – permit me the indulgence; I do not know which marriage was legal or even if he stood possessed of more wives elsewhere, perish the thought! I also do not know whether the captain also contacted the wife in King's Cross or if one of the ladies contacted the other, but that is immaterial to the case. Both ladies wanted revenge and decided to deal with their errant 'husband' once and for all.”

“The ladies first insured their husband's life for large sums of money. I suspect that poison was the agent selected, especially as this was a female crime. Having removed their victim one of them disguised herself as him and registered at the docks for every ship that they could, making sure to always register on the day before as well so that there were two Victor Savages seemingly available for work. They knew from their victim that certain companies kept their records solely on board ship, so waited for a ship from one of those companies to founder. Very soon one did, and they knew that they would soon be rich women. And also single."

"There was of course the not insignificant matter of disposing of a dead body. They purchased a small lawn for the back garden of the St. Pancras wife's house, under which the sailor currently lies quite literally 'pushing up daisies'. They then submitted their insurance claims, but it was their bad luck that although they had taken the precaution of insuring the faithless fellow at separate companies, two brothers who worked at these places happened to discuss their cases one of whom called me in.”

“That was indeed bad luck”, she said. “Tell me, in this totally unrelated case concerning people of whom I know precisely nothing, what happened to the two ladies?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“I rather think that they got away with it”, he said. “In the balance of murder against bigamy one must weigh things very carefully, including the fact that no jury in England would have ever convicted them of a capital offence. Not just because of the bigamy, bad enough as that was, but also because it could never be established as to which one administered the fatal dose. I am sure that they could have contrived a set of circumstances that if accused each would have pointed the finger at the other as being the main instigator of affairs and as we know, juries do not convict where there is an element of reasonable doubt.”

He hesitated.

“However”, he went on, “I might hope that an _acquaintance_ of these ladies might be gracious enough to advise them to be very, _very_ careful in the future. The trouble with starting out on a life of crime is that it is the perennial slippery slope. As Shakespeare's Macbeth found out, the first crime is morally tortuous but subsequent ones become ever easier. It nearly always ends very badly.”

“One can only hope one of them has a good enough friend to do just that”, our visitor said, rising to her feet. “Thank you, gentlemen. It has been a most informative visit.”

She smiled at us and left.

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All right, all right, there was a simper! No need to go on about it!

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“You are letting these women get away with murder?” I asked.

“As I said”, he sighed. “You know that no jury in the land would convict them on the death penalty once the truth came out let alone the fact that such a thing would benefit that young ass of an insurance agent. Indeed I fully suspect that even if they were found guilty of a lesser crime a judge would let them walk free, or at best impose only a nominal sentence. The only beneficiary from such a set of circumstances would be our unpleasant client, who if he practices such sophistry on those who assist him deserves to be made all the poorer for it.”

I could see his point.

“How would you react if you thought that I was secretly married to someone else?” he asked. I gave him such a look.

“The drop would be worth it!” I snarled. He smiled at my reaction.

“Exactly”, he said. “Hell hath no fury like a woman – or a partner – scorned. The philandering Mr. Victor Savage had to go and find that out the hard way!”

He returned to his book and I mused on his words for a moment. My innate insecurities often left me wondering what Sherlock saw in me sometimes, or why he stayed with me when he could have done so much better. My thoughts were only interrupted when he suddenly stood up.

“Come!” he said tersely.

I followed him in surprise as he all but dragged me to the bedroom. He bade me stand at the end of the bed and slipped round behind me, ordering me not to look round. By the time I had even considered objecting, he was back in front of me again. 

Stark naked! I whimpered.

“John”, he said softly, slowly unbuttoning my shirt, “you have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?” I managed hoping desperately that this would be a short conversation.

“Stop thinking so ill of yourself”, he said slipping my shirt off my back and running his hands over my chest. “I love only you and I will always love only you, until my dying breath.”

I did not have much breath left as he slowly undid my trousers, pulling them down to the ground and slipping his hands inside my underpants to rub my rapidly-hardening cock.

“Sherlock!” I whined. 

“Patience is a virtue, John”, he smiled. I bit back what would doubtless have been a most majestic reply had I been able to actually put it into words, and just went along for the ride. He slowly slipped my underpants down and I stepped out of them, now wearing only my socks. He stepped in behind me and began rubbing his own hard cock up against my backside, holding me to prevent me from pushing back against him.

“Oh Sherlock!” I moaned, desperate for more. He kissed along my back but did not even begin to work me open, seemingly content to torture me in this way. Then without warning he reached round and lightly touched my cock.

I exploded like a rocket.

He stepped closer holding me as I came, then led me gently to the bed and sat me down. My legs felt like jelly and I could not believe that he had made me come without even being inside of me. Perhaps there was hope for the over-fifties John Watson yet.

“I love you so much”, he whispered. “When you are ready, I want you to take me standing.”

And there went any chance of my getting some rest. As I so often thought, the man was trying to kill me through sex!

I really hoped that he would keep trying!

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Postscriptum: Although Sherlock decided not to pursue the ladies in question, I know that he kept the proverbial 'weather eye' on them in the years that followed. They did not stray again into a life of crime but enjoyed their gains at the expense of the insurance company, who in my opinion deserved to lose that money for their shabby treatment of my friend. Ten years passed at the end of which time the ladies decided to leave England for the United States. 

However, as I said at the start, this was to be one of those cases when justice was to be delayed but not denied. Only eight ladies travelling first-class on the 'Titanic' died that bitter, cold April night. They were two of them – and they would not be the only passengers to meet a cold, watery death who were known to us....

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	4. Case 328: The Adventure Of The Soul Singer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. American policeman David Starsky is visiting England for a year and is worried about his partner Ken Hutchinson, who keeps slipping away of an evening and coming back with lots of money. The answer is not what he expected.....

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It is as they say a small world, and before I narrate this curious little adventure John says that I should mention a small service that I did for someone helped by me in a most unusual manner, to wit Constable Lancelot Simpkins. The name might recall to readers one of our very early adventures together, the St. Pancras case from 1878 involving a cap found besides a slain policeman. That hero had been Constable Simpkins's brave father Percival, and the Metropolitan Police Service had (for once, as John would snarkily if accurately put in) acted honourably in settling a generous amount on the dead man's widow. A collection had also raised a further amount to which I had contributed so that young Lancelot, whose existence his father was unaware of as he was born eight months after that brave man's murder, could have a good start in life.

I had not been surprised when the young man had joined the service at eighteen and he had looked set for a good career until a recent incident that had led to my having to get involved in his life for what was technically the second time, albeit the first since he had been born. Two young thugs had tried to assault young Lady Aethelburh Grasmere on her way home from the theatre and young Simpkins had beaten them off, although he had sustained some injuries himself which John had helped to treat. Lady Aethelburh's father the fearsome Hubert, Lord Grasmere was less than pleased when his daughter then wished the boy to court her, as were all the other young bucks in society who thought themselves _far_ more suitable candidates. John and I visited the boy and his mother, and it was agreed that I would belatedly become a godfather to the boy (I knew that I could rely on Miss St. Leger to make sure that the records showed that that had always been the case), thus giving him a 'social leg-up' that made his suit much more acceptable. The only downside was that it now meant I would eventually have a wedding to attend, although John's suggestions as to what me might do to me when I returned still in my suit.... yes. 

_Hell yes!_

After that prospective match, there had been arguably sadder news in a dispatch that had reached us the day before our next case. My brother Mycroft's actual son the sixteen-year-old Midas, a boy whom the Good Lord had seen fit to let inherit all his father worst faults along with a blithe self-belief in his indestructibility, had gone with said father for a short holiday in Brighton and had decided despite being told otherwise that the Volk's Electric Railway made a most excellent playground. It had been yet another in the long list of mistakes in his short life. It had also been his last, as he had quite literally gone out with a bang!

As if John is in any position to roll his eyes at me with what he writes!

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I pressed my fingers together and looked appraisingly at the gentleman sat in the famous fireside chair. Detective David Starsky was about thirty years of age, plain of feature with dark curly hair and on a year's secondment from the Los Angeles Police Department in distant California which had sent him and his colleague over here to see how we did things in the Old Country. Or as he put it, 'because we busted the chief's daughter for doing drugs without knowing who the hell she was and he wasn't exactly over the moon about it'. Some things did not change no matter how far around the world one went.

“There might be any number of reasons why your partner is going out of an evening”, I said, quietly thinking that there was one very obvious one and a certain Viking acquaintance of mine might soon be being applied to for information. Or perhaps a certain Cornish ex-fisherman whose visits to Baker Street never made John jealous in any way, shape or form, especially the one this morning over which John was still not pouting and, had it not been for our current client's immediate advent, would have led to a morning behind closed doors with the red marker flipped across our door and my being wonderfully sore for the rest of the day. Ah well.

“But I bet we're both thinking of the same one”, the detective said morosely. “Hutch is an attractive guy I suppose, but I never thought he swung that way.”

“Quite a few men who work in that industry only 'swing that way' for the money, which is highly remunerative”, I said. “Coincidentally one of them was round just before you, a good friend of mine.”

I could actually _hear_ John's pout. He had arrived back from a patient to find Lowen leaving and had been in a mood ever since. I made a mental note to 'accidentally' let drop a few comments about how attractive our friend looked; a jealous John was a wonderful thing as he always abandoned his traditional reserve and let rip. Although not that far into the future he would be on the receiving end as the Cornishman had kindly brought yet another 'plaything' to help me do just that. If the fellow was not happy with his Italian stallions Salerio and Solario I would have thought he was trying to kill John through sexual means, something which I really should have been discouraging. 

Some time. Soon. Ish.

“Hutch?” I asked, pulling myself back from some Very Happy Thoughts.

“Ken Hutchinson”, our visitor explained, “but the station back in Cali already had a Ken so everyone calls him Hutch. 

“This does sound intriguing”, I said. “Bearing in mind what we both know to be the most likely solution however, I do advise you not to confront your partner over it if only for your own peace of mind.”

The detective looked confused.

“He may decide that he wishes to talk to you about it?” I suggested with a smile.

His horrified look almost made me laugh.

“Oh my God no!”

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Once we had had lunch I made sure to make the aforesaid remarks about our Cornish acquaintance. That was coincidentally also the first time that John had not only all but ripped my clothes off in our main room but had then fucked me while I was upside down grabbing my legs while staking his claim on me. Thank heaven for my innate flexibility.

As I said, totally not jealous.

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The following morning I sent out a couple of telegrams before returning to my beloved. 

“You are not still jealous over Lowen coming round, are you?” I teased.

“No!” he said not at all defensively. “I just do not like the way that he looks at you still.”

“Maybe you need a distraction”, I smiled. “I have something which I think may help.....”

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John moaned so prettily as I inserted the vibrator that Lowen had brought. It was not as knobbly as The Shredder that we used only very rarely, or as long as The Python which reached the parts that I doubted even the most well-endowed molly-men at Lowen's workplace could reach, although it might be as surprising as The Fire-raiser which was the one with the clever chemicals that expanded its nodules until the wearer was screaming for mercy. We would soon find out.

Electricity was in its early days back then but we did have a clockwork vibrator which gave a solid five minutes of pleasure before it had to be rewound again. John doubtless thought that The Timer was the one currently being inserted into him. He was wrong, but not completely so.

“A simple test”, I said. “If you can resist coming by the time this device has stopped, then I will send out to Branksome's for one of their Chocolate Nirvana cakes, all for yourself.”

His eyes widened in surprise, then he looked at me suspiciously. I smiled brightly.

“I shall just sit here beside you and read”, I said.

“Oh”, he said suspiciously. “All right.”

“Naked”, I added.

And there went the rapid breathing again!

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Five minutes in John was visibly suffering but determined to get his chocolate. I watched with a grin as he was clearly waiting for the five minutes to be up. 

And waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

“Did I not mention?” I said lightly as I stroked my cock and he gazed hopefully at it. “This is the latest invention. A multiple clockwork vibrator, with more than one winding mechanism for _infinitely_ longer pleasure.”

“How much longer?” he gasped, looking at me in horror. 

“Well”, I said pretending to do some calculations on my fingers, “let me work it out. Twelve mechanisms at five minutes each – I would make that a good solid hour.”

He whimpered in dread. As well he might.

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John made it to the fourth mechanism before he came with a despairing wail, although when I offered to remove the device, the horny bastard shook his head. He came twice more before it was done, and after I had cleaned him up he was asleep in seconds. And yes, I did send out for his cake before joining him. He had so earned it!

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It was not John's lucky week, for the telegram that I sent round to Sweyn about Detective Hutchinson's potential night-time activities was indeed answered by none other than the Viking's handsome deputy also known as John's least favourite Cornish ex-fisherman. Who really did not need to smirk _that_ much when John sat very slowly on his chair, whining all the way down.

“Life has its ups and downs, does it not doctor?” our visitor smiled brightly (I do not know why he and John did not get on better as they shared the same terrible sense of humour). “Sorry for the delay gentlemen, but we had to ask around the other house owners as well to make sure. None of them have entertained any fair-headed American gentlemen of late, except for the deputy ambassador's rather curious son who is banned from our own establishments.”

“A son?” I said, surprised. “I thought that that gentleman did not have any children.”

“Mr. Joseph Conrad is indeed separated from his second wife”, Lowen explained, “but there was a stepson from his first marriage, a boy called Landon whom he adopted. A magnificent and well-endowed young gentleman in so many ways but... oh dear, the Good Lord most certainly made up for it by taking the same and more back in brains. I swear that if one stood close enough to him, one could hear the Atlantic rollers breaking.” He paused and rolled his tongue around his lips lasciviously before continuing, “it really is so much better to find gentlemen who have brains as well as beauty.”

He stared pointedly at me. What was left of John growled unhappily from his chair, especially as he knew moving from where he was any time soon was not an option. But the increased rapidity of my beloved's breathing was.... interesting.

I just knew that someone was busy cataloguing Surefire Methods Of Murdering Annoying Cornish Ex-fishermen.

“Do you have anything on our other American visitors?” I asked, suppressing a smile. 

He nodded and leered at me again, eliciting an angry growl from someone who could barely stand, let alone rush to my rescue. Although I was sure that that would not stop him being wonderfully and jealously possessive of my backside once our visitor had gone. Once he could move, anyway.

“Yes”, he said. “Something rather curious. Mr. Kenneth Hutchinson may not be selling his body as such, but he has been making money from something of his. A talent quite unusual for a policeman, even in this city.”

I looked at him in surprise.

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Once Lowen had explained himself I had a good idea of what our visiting detective was really up to. It really was terrible of the Cornishman to pretend he was suffering from a shoulder sprain and needed the doctor to examine him, not just because it enabled him to remove his upper clothing and still leer at me but because poor John had to stand up to attend to him.

They probably heard John's yelp of pain all the way downstairs. The two of us really should tell him about how happy Lowen was with Salerio and Solario.

Some day. 

I sent out another telegram and spent the rest of that day making casual comments about how wonderfully fit Lowen looked for a man in his _early_ forties and how pleasant he was to have around. John was seething by the time we adjourned to our room and he very forcibly staked his claim on me by folding me right over and fucking me twice before pulling me into a very close manly embrace that was definitely not The Thing That Started With The Third Letter Of The Alphabet And Rhymed With Huddling. There was also rather a lot of defensive growling that I did not hear, along with complaints about annoying leering Cornish ex-fishermen and, for some strange and inexplicable reason, bastard smirking blue-eyed consulting detectives. I had no idea _who_ he could have meant!

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The following evening (once John could move again) we had arranged to meet Detective Starsky at a small and rather select nightclub in town called 'The Soul Cellar'. I had made sure to wear the shirt with the higher collar; some horny and totally not jealous doctor had left hickeys _everywhere!_ At least the one under the panties was not rubbing!

Our client looked around the semi-lit room and was clearly impressed.

“So”, he said, “did you find out what Hutch was up to? I think he knows I'm worried about him but I haven't said anything.”

“That is good of you”, I said. “You suspected that Mr. Hutchinson, who is even in your own estimate an attractive gentleman, has been selling his body for sex?”

The detective winced at my frankness.

“Uh, yeah”, he said. “Is he?”

“Not exactly.”

The detective stared at me in confusion.

“What do you mean, 'not exactly'?” he asked. “You can't half-sell your body any more than you can be half-pregnant. He's definitely getting money from somewhere; he gave a lot to the collection they were making at the station for Tim whose wife is expecting their first child, and he didn't tell me about it. I had to find out from the secretary.”

The small band started playing on the stage and I leaned forward.

“A word of advice”, I said quietly. _“Do not shout out.”_

He looked at me in confusion then caught sight of the singer, announced as 'Mr. Soul', coming on to the stage. The fellow was blond, solidly built, about thirty years of age and would I suppose have been considered handsome by someone who did not have the most beautiful man in the world sitting (if still a tad gingerly) across from him.

 _”Hutch?”_ the detective said incredulously as his fellow American began his song. Thankfully he had kept his voice down and we were some way back from the stage.

_“'Come on Silver Lady take my word,_   
_I won't run out on you again believe me._   
_Oh, I've seen the light,_   
_It's just one more fight,_   
_Without you._   
_Here I am ten thousand miles from home,_   
_The London wind and rain, they cut right through me,_   
_I'm lost and alone, chilled to the bone,_   
_Silver Lady.”_

“He can sing!” Detective Starsky said incredulously. “The bastard can actually sing!”

“Many people can”, I said, “but his voice is quite pleasant. I think that we had better invite him to join us.”

I signalled to a lady in a grey dress and she nodded to me. She waited for the song to finish before bringing Mr. Hutchinson to our table. He came over looking friendly enough, although his face fell visibly when he saw his colleague at the table.

“Davey?” he said. “What're you doing here?”

“More to the point, what are _you_ doing here?” Detective Starsky demanded.

“Making a fair amount of money quite legally”, I smiled as the singer blushed. 

“Seems a funny way to do it”, Detective Starsky said. “Still, I suppose it could've been worse.”

The lady in the grey dress stepped forward. She was really quite attractive and smiled at the singer.

“Kenny”, she purred, “don't forget to join me and the girls when your turn is over. _We'll be waiting!”_

She kissed him and sashayed off. Detective Starsky spluttered indignantly.

“Girls?” he asked his colleague. His colleague nodded.

“The, uh, dancing girls”, he grinned. “Six of 'em. They uh, they sort of like the accent. Don't wait up for me, Davey!”

He sauntered back to the stage, leaving his colleague speechless.

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“I suppose that Mr. Hutchinson is a lucky fellow”, John said later as we climbed the stairs back to our rooms in Baker Street. 

“Yes”, I said. “I suppose that he does have a superficial attractiveness, plus there is that accent. But six girls... his colleague was clearly quite jealous.”

“Six of you!” John shuddered at the thought. “I barely survive one.”

“There are some gentlemen who prefer what they call 'multiple choice'”, I said. “Most notably of course our friend Chatton Smith with his ever-ready Mr. Macdonald and his three sons, Mr. Blackwater and his sexually-overcharged friends, and not forgetting Carl and Luke when Danny and Benji 'team up' against them. We have never considered bringing anyone else in to our bedchamber, but I wonder....”

I was getting the sort of look that suggested the next murder to be investigated would in all likelihood be my own.

 _“What?”_ he said testily.

“I suppose that I could always ask if Lowen might be free one day.....”

He actually snarled at me and I fled up the stairs before him. Oh this was going to be such fun!

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It was!

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	5. Case 329: The Trifling Case Of Mr. Mortimer Maberley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Sherlock is Commanded to take a case by an army wife, and John is not at all jealous of two of the arguably well-endowed gentlemen involved in it. No, absolutely not jealous at all. No way.  
> Shut up!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was one of my friend's more amusing cases, totally free from death, destruction, murder, killing or even political intrigue. But not from trifle. And my friend's sole reference to it was so excruciatingly unfunny that... well, it was fortunate that he was a great detective because he was certainly no comedian!

My loyal readers will remember that Sherlock's stepbrother Mr. Campbell Kerr had been the owner of a whole empire of molly-houses before he had retired some years back to the countryside with his lover Mr. Alan Buxted. Their business had been taken on by Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson and, less happily for me, the irksome Mr. Laurence Trevelyan. Sherlock always seemed far too amused every time the Cornish ex-fisherman came round and then leered at my friend in that unpleasant way of his, and afterwards I would sometimes take my love to our room and very forcibly restate my claim on his delicious body. Mr. Trevelyan's visits in particular were almost as frequent of those of Sherlock's cousin Mr. Garrick's lover Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, even if Sherlock always seemed to enjoy the way in which I abandoned my usual reserve and 'let rip' every time as a result.

He surely could not have been encouraging them.... no, not even he would have been that devious.

Although I was now down to a mere handful of patients – some friends and old patients who I suspected seemed to want my services more to say they had been treated by a famous author rather than for my medical skills – I did a lot of work for Mr. Godfreyson's boys and it was two of them who brought this curious little case to our attention. Januariusz (Jan) and Jerzy Herak came from Poland, a small town not far from Cracow where we had paused on our way around that memorable Grand Tour (ahem!) years ago. They were something like second or third cousins although they looked like identical twins, the only real difference between them being that Jan had brown eyes and Jerzy green ones. Both were lantern-jawed young fellows of about twenty-five years of age and darkly handsome in the sort of way that suggested they would happily murder someone while not batting an eyelid. And.... I really needed to change my reading material.

_('Someone' says that I also have to include their appellation in Mr. Godfreyson's catalogue, namely 'Extra-Large Polish Sausage, Two Servings'. I had treated both of them in my time – like the Selkirk twins, neither liked being away from the other – and could attest that yes, they were what one might describe as moderately well-endowed._

_'Someone' is giving me a look again. All right, they could justifiably have inserted a 'Triple' before that 'Extra-Large'! And no, I was still not the least bit jealous. So there!)_

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In our rooms at Baker Street Jan and Jerzy looked like regular Edwardian gentlemen, save for the fact they were sat rather closer to each other than might have been considered socially acceptable. I had had to treat them both for minor cuts and abrasions a couple of months back when a gang of five youths had jumped them coming out of the molly-house. I had reluctantly also treated the youths, maybe a tad roughly, who had been in far worse shape.

"As you know, sirs", Jan said, "we had been looking to secure a place of our own as our rooms are small and cramped. We both have jobs now and we found a place in Paddington not far from here. It was a stretch but we thought that we might just manage it."

"I know Jerzy has a job waiting at the 'St. George' off Shaftesbury Avenue", Sherlock said, "but what did you find, Jan?"

"Jerzy was able to put my name forward for a job in the kitchens", Jan said. "That is where we have come up against a problem."

"What sort of problem?" I asked.

"Do you know anything about the Maberley family?" Jan asked.

All three looked at me for some reason. I scowled at them.

"The literary reviews are right below the social pages in the 'Times',” I said, not at all sniffily. 

Did I also mention that our visitors seemed to be able to mimic 'someone's' annoying judgemental silences? I scowled again.

"One of the leading military families on the social scene", I said. "Colonel Sir Adonijah Maberley is in his fifties now and has six children, five boys and a girl. The four eldest sons are all in the Army in some capacity or other."

They were still looking at me. 

"Two captains, a major and a lieutenant", I sighed. 

"The Bradshaw of the social scene!" teased someone who was not getting laid any time soon, or doing any laying for that matter. "What is your connection to this parade of paladins, gentlemen?"

The two young fellows exchanged a look.

"It is all a bit difficult", Jerzy said at last. "As you say doctor, the four older Maberley boys are all in the Army and all doing very well. However the youngest son, Mortimer, is just about to turn twenty-one and.... he is cut from a rather different cloth. They are all strapping, blond military giants while he...."

He stopped and looked at his cousin.

"One of the many unkind things that have been said about poor Merry is that he must be the milkman's offspring", Jan said. "He looks very much the runt of the litter I am afraid, and he has what we call in the old country.... I think it can only be translated as a 'pick-on-able face'. He started helping out in the kitchens a few months ago and some of the other staff tried to bully him. We soon put a stop to that."

"Merry is...." his cousin began, then stopped. He thought for a moment before continuing, "not one of us here, at least not yet. He craves affection and especially touch, and is happiest when one or both of us just hold him. But you see....."

He stopped and looked appealingly at Sherlock who nodded understandingly. I thought of our friends LeStrade and Gregson who had found solace in holding each other and nothing more. Sometimes that was just the way the Good Lord ordered things; to their credit most people understood and tolerated that, provided people were discreet.

"You implied without actually saying to the other staff that one or both of you were sleeping with him, in order to persuade them to back away", Sherlock said. "There have not been any problems since?"

Jerzy smiled sourly.

"The chief waiter tried it on when he thought we were not looking", he said. "Sweyn loaned me four of the boys to waylay him one evening. He got the message!"

I had little doubt as to what form that 'message' had taken. That industry did not do subtlety.

"The thing is", Jan said, "we want Merry to move in with us. He is not happy at home and we could keep an eye on him there. But he is terrified."

"Of his father the colonel, I suppose", Sherlock said. 

I may have imagined it but there seemed to be a slight pause before either gentleman spoke again.

"His father is arranging a post in the Army for him", Jerzy said, shuddering. "We both fear that it will be the end of the poor boy."

"I am surprised that his father allowed him to work in the kitchens in the first place", I said.

"That is another problem", Jan sighed. "He is officially at a college down the road and works at the hotel only for the experience. They had him for an hour a week as part of his course there, but it turned out that he is a wizard with food. He can even cook up some meals from home that we had thought we would never taste again! They want him to work full-time and I can envisage his father being carried off to hospital when he finds out. He thinks that it is just some small part of his son's college work."

Sherlock thought for a moment.

"I think", he said eventually, "that we may need to approach this case from a rather unusual angle. I shall have to make a few inquiries, but I see one possibility that may just work. I hope that I shall have news for you fairly soon, perhaps even by the end of the week."

They looked at him in surprise. I knew how they felt.

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"What can you tell me about the colonel and his home life?" Sherlock asked later once our guests had gone. 

"Young Mortimer Maberley is the only one left now", I said. "The sister Mary was the oldest and she is married with a family, as are her four Army brothers. I wonder if that might be part of the problem."

"What do mean?" he asked. He was lunging on the couch next to me, his impossible hair pushing against my side. I ruffled it in the knowledge that no power on earth could make it a bigger mess, and he smiled at me.

"Lady Maberley had ten children", I said. "The daughter, four sons, four more children that died young and finally Mortimer, or Merry as the boys call him. I doubt that he can have had much of a merry life with his father expecting him to follow in his brothers' footsteps and his mother perhaps overdoing it on the care front when all her other boys were gone. He must have been alone for nearly a decade after Peter, the next brother, married and moved out."

"What the boys said about his needing touch", Sherlock said. "Like Gregson and LeStrade?"

"Humans need reassurance", I said ruffling his hair once more. "Even if as they say the young fellow is not 'one of us' he would feel happy that someone wants him, especially if he is as unprepossessing in appearance as they say. He may want more or he may not, but being accepted is an important step. I doubt very much that his father is the caring sort."

"What about the mother?" he asked. I frowned.

"I do not know her", I said, "but there is one curious thing."

"What is it?" he asked.

"When the newspaper reports that a husband and wife attended a social event they always lead with the husband's name", I said, "unless there is a good reason not to. But the Maberleys are always 'Lady Maberley and her husband Colonel Sir Maberley'. It seems odd that that are the only people to be so regarded."

"You had better read the social pages closely over the next few days", he grinned, "just to see if they keep this up!"

I glared at him. A gentleman was entitled to have interests, damnation!

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Three days later we had a call. Lady Maberley and Colonel Sir Adonijah Hugh Stewart Maberley wished to consult my friend, and written on their card was that the matter was of The Most Immediate And Gravest Importance. Sherlock asked the maid to show our visitors up and we duly received them.

The colonel was as I said in his mid- to late-fifties and could surely have earned himself some extra pennies in his latter years by posing for newspapers as the archetypal Grumpy Old Soldier. He had blond hair turned nearly all white, a rather fierce moustache and a scowl that made it quite clear he was not happy at something. His wife was about five years his junior, a large and rather fearsome woman whose name, rather unusually, had been on her husband's card. Lady Euphemia Maberley was one of those ladies whose look alone could probably have caused a whole horde of Zulu warriors to have very rapidly reconsidered their life choices, and I did not doubt from the way she sailed into the room as to precisely who wore the trousers in this marriage. She looked sharply at my friend – all right, there _was_ a simper! – before she spoke.

“Donny is worried about Mortimer!”

Sherlock smiled benignly at her. Sure enough, that elicited another simper. I was going to have to bar all female clients (along with all Cornish ex-fishermen and Great Eastern Railway deputy managers) if this kept up.

“I believe that Mortimer is your youngest son”, he said. "What seems to be the matter with him, pray?"

The colonel opened his mouth to say something but his wife got there first. I was quickly getting the impression that this was the usual state of affairs.

“Donny has acquired the frankly impossible notion that Mortimer will Let The Family Down in some way”, Lady Maberley said firmly. _“Quite_ impossible. as I would never allow it. Although I must admit that I am a little concerned at this recent Personage at his hotel place or whatever. Mortimer believes that they do not like him for some reason."

Sherlock nodded.

"I see", he said. "What hotel place is this, may I ask?"

Again the colonel was too slow. He really should have spared himself the effort.

"Mortimer's college – Mark Square, one of the best of course – secured him some experience arrangement at the 'St. George'", Lady Maberley said. "Lord alone knows why but that is modern education for you. He says that this new Personage who eats there is looking at him in the wrong way!"

"My boy...." the colonel began.

She turned and looked at him. He gulped and stopped dead. I doubted that in his long military career he had ever seen anything quite so frightening!

"This Personage is _looking_ at my son", Lady Maberley said to Sherlock. "I do not wish for that. I require you to put a stop to it!"

Sherlock frowned.

"It is rather difficult to stop a person from just _looking_ at someone, my lady", he said. "Does your son feel threatened by this Personage?"

She sniffed disdainfully.

"Mortimer is of an age where he wishes to move out", she said, frowning as if such a thing greatly displeased her. He wishes to share with two... two....."

I leaned forward, waiting to see what horror she was about to set on us.

“With two _foreigners!”_ , she shuddered delicately. _“Such_ a tragedy. But the dear boy is very set in his ideas and quite determined to make his own way in life. But I am sure he does not like the way that this Personage is looking at him."

"He has told you that?" Sherlock asked.

"Mortimer never tells anyone anything!" she snorted. "I got it from Lady Bagley who dines there and saw the whole thing, and Mrs. Scarsdale confirmed it just as she said. Who knows what terrible thing this Personage may do to my little darling if he is not stopped!"

"I shall need a description of this Personage", Sherlock said. "In fact, no. I think that this matter needs to be stopped here and now. We shall go to the hotel to confront this fellow, and put an end to his nefarious behaviour."

The lady looked surprised at her sudden success.

"You will?" she asked. Clearly she had come expecting to have to make more of an effort to win my friend over.

"Pray, what times does this Personage attend the hotel?" Sherlock asked.

"Always dinner, I was told", she answered.

"Then we shall meet you there for dinner this evening", Sherlock said firmly. "I believe that they start serving at five o' clock so we shall arrive a shade before then, and we shall be able to stop this blackguard in his tracks!"

And that, of course, earned him another simper! Damnation!

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I waited until our visitors had gone before challenging him.

"All right", I said firmly. "What are you up to?"

"Would you settle for some distraction sex?" he asked hopefully. 

I shook my head at him, although I hoped that I might still get the sex later anyway. He chuckled.

"The 'Personage' so terrifying poor Mr. Mortimer Maberley is an actor friend of mine", he said. "He has made sure to convey to a whole number of people who dine at the hotel that he is interested in his target for some dark and deadly reason; of course the news filtered through to the young man's parents as I wished for it to do. Mr. Quintus Hoyland is an excellent amateur actor; he can do the cloaked villain amazingly well when one considers that he is actually a sexton at the famous St. Clement's Church."

"So there is no threat to the fellow then?" I asked. He shook his head.

"But his parents think that there is", he said. "The name of the hotel is quite appropriate really."

"Why?"

"Because my having created the dragon, they are going to be there when 'St. George', in his Polish mantle of Jerzy, rides to the rescue!"

I looked at him in confusion. No change there then.

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At least I still got the distraction sex, although as we were going out in a few hours Sherlock insisted on being gentle with me and ending our session with a whole lot of that manly embracing thing he likes. And which I was most generously prepared to tolerate.

Shut up!

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The 'St. George' was what I would have termed among London's middle-ranking hotels. I knew that the similar 'Ventura' a little way further down the road had a reputation for having more than its share of military guests (as well as some very good chocolate pudding on Thursdays) so perhaps Mr. Mortimer Maberley had been hoping to avoid the true extent of his work getting back to his parents. They doubtless still thought that he did an hour or so here before returning to his studies and did not, as Jan and Jerzy had told us he did, spend all of his spare time there.

Colonel and Lady Maberley arrived shortly after us and were of course keen to discover what Sherlock had found out. We all sat down and ordered; happily the dessert of the day was chocolate trifle which turned out to be Lady Maberley's favourite. This place was definitely rising in my estimation despite my having to sit next to someone who was not-smirking again.

We had finished our main course when Sherlock leaned over to Lady Maberley, who was once again in mid-simper. Honestly!

"Is that the Personage you were worried about?" he whispered.

She looked across to where a dark-suited fellow was sat alone, his attention very clearly on the door leading out to the kitchen. 

"I am _certain_ that that is him!" she said far too loudly. "In black, just like Fenella said. Donny, do not just sit there! _Do_ something!"

Her husband huffed and rose to his feet but the fellow across from us was already standing and moved swiftly across to the door which had just swung open to admit a waiter. He slipped through but was swiftly ejected, Jerzy emerging with him in a death-grip. The fellow struggled helplessly and was out of the dining-area in barely a minute. 

Jan appeared at our table.

"Sorry about that sirs, madam", he said. "That person was paying undue attention to one of our staff members and he has been shown the door. Jerzy will make sure he does not come back again."

Lady Maberley smiled, then frowned.

"Wait a minute", she said. "Jerzy – was that not the name of the foreigner that Mortimer wanted to move in with?"

He looked at her in surprise.

 _"You_ are Mortimer's mother?” he said. "Yes, Jerzy and I needed someone to be able to afford a new house. We were hoping that he might suit, especially as he is so quiet and well-mannered."

"Well, of course he was well-raised", she smiled. "Perhaps it might be acceptable, considering that you clearly have his best interests at heart."

Her husband spluttered and seemed set to say something but she just looked at him. He subsided but still looked annoyed.

"Suppose so", he muttered.

"Then that is settled!" his wife said firmly.

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Actually it was not quite settled. My opinion of the place improved even more (not, as 'someone' later snarked, only after Jan told me that they were currently doing this heavenly dessert every Friday!). Lady Maberley too was very pleased with the trifle which she deemed excellent.

“This is absolutely _delicious!_ ” she said. “We _must_ come here more often!”

Her husband looked horrified. I could understand why; military pensions were not renowned for being that generous.

“Perhaps we might speak to the chef and offer our compliments?” Sherlock said calling over Jan. “I understand, madam, that for a few _valued_ customers, establishments like this one are known to provide recipes or even the occasional loan of their staff.”

“That would be wonderful”, she sighed. “He can bring seconds while he is at it.”

Sure enough, some little time later a short fellow in a cook's uniform walked smartly up to our table – and went deathly pale.

_“Mor-ti-mer!”_

That was the colonel. Fortunately his lady wife had a mouthful of trifle at the time which she finished before looking sharply at what was very obviously her son. The one staring at the floor in the obvious and fervent wish that it would open up and swallow him whole. Preferably in the next five seconds.

“Hmm”, Lady Maberley said at last. “You always did enjoy playing in the kitchen as a boy, I remember. This trifle is _most_ delicious.”

“My son a..... a.... a cook!” her husband spluttered. "You.... you actually.... _work_ here?"

"Mortimer wishes to go full-time", Jerzy said, "and the hotel management have said they would welcome him with open arms as he is so talented."

“This is an _outrage!"_ the colonel snorted. "I will not countenance such a disgrace to the family name!”

His wife slowly put down her spoon then turned to give her husband what was mist definitely another look. The sort of look that should have been prohibited under one of those international weapons treaties; I could swear that the whole place went silent under it. The colonel gulped and sank back down from his half-raised position.

“Hmm”, Lady Maberley said again. “ _Most_ delicious. Well, if you can find time to come home and cook for us now and again, that would be appreciated. Would it not, _dear?”_

She was giving 'dear' the sort of look that clearly implied while there might technically be two possible answers to her question, only one of them was really advisable considering who he slept with of a night. The colonel looked as if he was weighing up the possibilities of another scowl then clearly (and wisely, in my opinion) decided against it.

“I suppose so”, he conceded. “Those roast potatoes were rather good.”

“Yes”, Sherlock smiled. “I understand from his colleagues that from time to time Mr. Maberley here serves up a most delicious meal involving meat and vegetables.”

The bastard! Jan and Jerzy both went bright red and the poor young cook looked even more mortified than before, but fortunately neither of his parents managed to get the _innuendo_ and he was allowed to retreat to the kitchen where doubtless he poured himself and his soon to be room-mates a strong drink. Or three.

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	6. Interlude: Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Sausages!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Postscriptum: It was a little over than a month after our visit to the 'St. George' that John and I met Mr. Mortimer Maberley again. I know people can change and sometimes quite quickly, but in the short time since our last encounter I barely recognized him. This was not some quiet timid youngest son of a colonel; this was a gentleman who knew what he wanted out of life and was determined to set about getting it. 

He recognized us and greeted us both warmly.

“I cannot thank you enough for all you did”, he smiled. “Living with Jan and Jerzy – I do not think that I have ever been so happy.”

“We missed you at the hotel yesterday”, I said. “I know that it was not one of your regular days but we had to go there because it was chocolate trifle day.”

John scowled at me, more so as I had moved out of swatting range. Mr. Maberley chuckled at his annoyance.

“They do make the most excellent chocolate trifle”, John said defensively. “You seem a lot happier in yourself, sir.”

“I most definitely am”, the fellow grinned. “But then every night I get a double helping of extra-large Polish sausage – sometimes at one and the same time. My life is so hard, you know!”

Chuckling he strode off. John stared after him in shock.

“Two into one”, I mused, ignoring his horrified face. “And our Cumberlander friend Inspector Smith did mention that his lover's two younger sons sometimes both 'service' him at the same time.... yes, I suppose that it _is_ possible.”

I did not even need to mention Lowen's name. John's face darkened like a winter storm.

 _“They would never find your body!”_ he snarled before storming off.

I snickered quietly. He was going to be _so_ rough tonight!

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He was. I loved every damn minute of it even if I had to bring him breakfast in bed the following morning. 

As if you have to ask; _of course_ I had half of his bacon. After all, he did not have the strength left to hold his plate, so I was being kind to him.

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	7. Case 330: The Saint Lubbock's Day Case ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. In an unusual reversal of things, Sherlock is presented with a solution to a case but is asked to pretend that he does not know it in order to spare someone's feelings. What gives?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: Sometimes even the world of politics gets it right. This story partly concerns the Liberal politician John Lubbock (born 1834). He was in the Commons between 1870 and 1900, first for Maidstone and later for London University, before being ennobled as Baron Avery. His most famous achievement was as mentioned in this story the 1871 Bank Holidays Act, but he was also responsible for nearly thirty other acts, the most notable of which was the 1882 Ancient Monuments Act which was the first governmental effort to save our Nation's heritage. He also supported Charles Darwin and his Theory of Evolution, and greatly advanced archaeology as a science, coining the terms Palaeolithic and Neolithic.

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In most of Sherlock's cases he had to use his great brain to hunt down the solution to some problem or other, while usually using some other great part of his anatomy to.... I have to say that London's roads were getting worse and my poor, abused backside would have appreciated it if the drivers of the metropolis's cabs could have invested in at least some suspension!

This particular case, however, was not only 'backwards' in that my friend started with the solution in his hands but also concerned one of the most noble families in England. Indeed, even for these few notes that I have preserved for posterity I have felt compelled to change certain names and geographical details, as the relatives of the gentlemen involved would, I am sure, have been mortified had this come out.

I had also better explain the title I allocated to this adventure, as the name used has since fallen out of fashion. The Bank Holidays Act of 1871 replaced the old religious days of observance with four days – Easter Monday, Whit Monday, the first Monday of August and St. Stephen's Day, which joined Christmas Day and Good Friday as days on which people could not be compelled to do paid work. The Act had been passed through the efforts of John Lubbock M.P, Baron Avebury, hence it was that for some years thereafter May Day was called Saint Lubbock's Day. _And someone is going to roll those pretty blue eyes of his out of his pretty head one of these days!_

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On this particular Saint Lubbock's Day we had a visitor bright and early. Rather too bright and early for 'someone' who had snarled at me when I had tried to get out of bed – it may have been a holiday but unfortunately I was still 'on call' as medical emergencies did not choose to respect my few guaranteed times off work. I was only rarely called out however, as there was a hefty extra charge for call-outs on days like these, but I still had to be up in the morning. 

Sherlock, of course, was already 'up' and delivered me a very thorough fucking which had had me limping to the door in very poor shape. And if I had a smile on my face, so what?

There was a card on the floor by the door to our room – Mrs. Rockland's staff knew full well not to enter when the red card was pulled across unless there was either a fire or a apocalypse – and my eyebrows rose as I picked it up. We hardly ever had anyone call this early, but we knew this gentleman. I went back to the living dead and told him of our visitor.

“It cannot be an emergency”, he yawned, “as he and Carl had Benji and Luke down to their house last weekend, and it is now Thursday. Even someone of Carl's great age must surely have recovered by now; we would surely have read in the 'Times' if either of my relatives had died through sexual exhaustion!”

I pou... scowled at his mention of age, as General Carlyon Holmes was only four years older than me. I did not like it when I 'rounded a decade' before Sherlock, with me now in my fifties and him.... not. Surely someone of his great brain must have realized that by now?

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Mr. Daniel Hunter was, I had always thought, something of a strange fellow. The skin-colour apart he was the image of his half-brother, the leering Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles whose visits to 221B were far too frequent in my opinion. I would have said that there was something almost delicate about Mr. Hunter's gentle nature had I not on occasion treated the wreckage that he had left of the poor general; the soldier had actually cried when he had tried to move and had looked immensely relieved when I had recommended a break from 'certain activities' for a while. Although he had then shuddered when Mr. Hunter had demanded a time for 'the resumption of normal service'.

Even soldiers are afraid of some things, apparently!

“Thank you for seeing me at this ungodly hour”, Mr,. Hunter smiled, taking a seat. “Carl had an early morning meeting so I had to wake him at six, in order to get his wake-up call done and give him time to recover. Some fellows really do not cope well with mornings.”

“Very true”, my traitorous mouth said before I could stop it. Sherlock shot me a sharp look that said very clearly I would be paying for that snark later, and I shuddered most pleasurably.

“I am sure that in your career, you have had many cases that start out from something strange”, our visitor went on, smiling at me far too knowingly for someone in his early thirties, “but Carl has a rather unique problem with one of the men under him. He is of course too proud to ask for help and he would be mortified if he knew that I was doing so on his behalf, but I thought that you might tell him that you came across the gentleman involved in the course of another investigation.”

I smiled at that. He really did love his old soldier.

“Might he not work out that you came here this morning?” I pointed out.

Our visitor smirked.

“I left the house after him”, he said, “but not before jerking him off as he was trying to get his coat on. He was so flustered by the time he limped into his cab, I doubt he will be thinking of much other than how bad London's roads are or how dreadful his cab's suspension is.”

The bad fellow looked pointedly at me, and I blushed. Manfully, of course. And some bastard was not-smirking again!

“Two years ago Carl had a new fellow report to the barracks”, our visitor said, smirking in a manner quite unbecoming a servant. “A Yorkshireman called Mr. Adam Cooper, from Redcar up by Middlesbrough I think. Carl being Carl, he very quickly worked out that something was up with the fellow and got Miss St. Leger to make some inquiries.”

“What is this fellow like?” Sherlock asked.

“Very good-looking, not that I would ever say that to my love”, our guest smiled. “I know, because Carl told me, that the fellow was far too full of himself when he arrived.”

Sherlock looked at our guest shrewdly.

“Knowing that my brother and toleration are as alien to each other as Randall and human understanding”, he said, “I shall ask the obvious question. What high connection does Mr. Cooper have to protect him from dismissal?”

Mr. Hunter sighed.

“When I first saw him, I thought that there was something Germanic about his features”, he said. “With good reason; Adam was not his original name. He changed it from Siegfried, which given the rising tensions between Great Britain and Germany, I can perhaps understand.”

I suddenly tensed.

“This Mr. Cooper, whatever his surname is”, I said. “He is about twenty-two years of age?”

Sherlock looked at me in surprise, but Mr. Hunter nodded.

“That was what Miss St. Leger found out”, he said gravely.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Our current King-Emperor had an affair with a high-ranking German lady related to the Kaiser”, I said grimly. “In 1879.”

 _(I shall not mention the name of Mr. Cooper's mother, but she had slipped into England_ incognito _having met the then Prince of Wales on an earlier occasions, and apparently slipped under him while she was here. She was also married to a prominent social figure from a third country that Great Britain wished to keep on the right side of. On the upside, this sort of diplomatic nightmare was likely giving a certain lounge-lizard palpitations just now!)_.

“It has been two years so something has changed, or you would not be seeking our help”, Sherlock said, giving me a most annoying nod. “What is that?”

“Mr. Cooper's father – his official one, at least – died three months ago, and he went back to Yorkshire for the funeral”, he said. “When he returned he had a fellow from his father's estate in tow, a Mr. Benjamin Vansant who also wanted to join the army. He is a decent enough fellow and he became Mr. Cooper's batman – and that was when the fellow's character changed completely. He has become the model soldier, and I know that Carl was conflicted when he had to promote him recently as he fears that he may relapse into his old ways.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“What are these gentlemen like physically?” he asked.

I thought that a rather odd question, but our visitor blushed for some reason.

“I probably should not know this about Mr. Vansant – Carl would be less than pleased – but he is smooth not just in character but in body. I saw him swimming one time and apart from the hair in his head, that is it. I mention that because Sergeant Cooper is almost the exact opposite; the definition of hirsute. He is also very fit; that is another change since his new batman in that he has become much more muscular.”

“Some men do get jealous of the looks of others”, Sherlock said airily. “But they usually manage to work it out of their systems sooner or later.”

I stared at him suspiciously. Our visitor chuckled.

“All those handsome men do make it easy to provoke Carl at times”, he admitted, “especially when he starts to get maudlin at the age difference. I agree with him, he gets annoyed at my agreeing with him, and it always ends quite satisfactorily!”

Judging from the smirk on our visitor's face it always ended very satisfactorily, the rogue!

“Sergeant Cooper and Private Vansant?” I offered.

“Carl is sure that there is something there”, Mr. Hunter said, “but given the sergeant's connections he does not want to risk investigating. If the newspapers got hold of it things might turn ugly very quickly.”

“And you wish me to find out what is going on?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

We both looked at our visitor in surprise.

“I managed to work that out”, he said, “but Carl has not. If he were to realize that the old boy would sulk for days; you know what he is like over such things. I hoped that you could arrange for him to find out 'by chance' so he can be happy again.”

Once again I thought it rather sweet that someone of Mr. Hunter's tender years cared so much for his older lover's feelings. _And if anyone so much as smirked then..... I would not be happy!”_

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Mr. Hunter told us what he believed was going on with the sergeant and his batman, and.... well, they say that the gamut of humanity is like the old song, deep and wide. _But this?_

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What was left of me lay there gasping as Sherlock used what seemed like an absurdly heavy cloth to wipe me down. My friend had come back from posting his letter, had flipped the red card over on the door and had then returned to tell me that he was determined to finally fuck the sass out of me. Boy, had he tried!

I was not up for even glaring at him, but I graciously condescended to some of that manly embracing that he liked and I sort of tolerated. Except of course when he called it The Thing That Started With The Third Letter Of The Alphabet And Rhymed With Huddling!

“How are you going to help your brother?” I yawned. It was nearly lunch but he would have to bring me my food today. I had more than earned it.

“Given what is going on, I shall ask Miss St. Leger to find out just how often and when it happens”, he said. “Danny is quite right; Carl would sulk for days if he knew that he had been out-thought by his younger lover. Then we shall arrange for the most feared soldier in His Majesty's Armed Forces to drop by and discover the 'hairy' truth!”

I made the mistake of glaring at him for that, then winced. Even that movement hurt!

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We were to be extremely fortunate, for Miss St. Leger answered Sherlock's request within the hour and it turned out that today was one of the days in question. Sherlock therefore arranged to meet his brother at his barracks; the general had been away at a committee meeting elsewhere in the capital and looked annoyed at having to return via the barracks rather than straight to his home. Then again, he also still looked tired from his 'wake-up call' that morning, so he should have been relieved at the extra respite! No stamina, some of these older men.

“I was doing an investigation for Lord Marske over a servant of his”, Sherlock began, nodding at me for some reason, “and came across one of your men in the course of my investigations. Sergeant Adam Cooper.”

The general frowned.

“What has the pest been up to this time?” he demanded. “I had thought that he was better of late?”

“I chanced to find out just why that was”, Sherlock smiled, “and even in my long career I have to say that it was something new. Would you like me to share it with you?”

His brother looked at him warily.

“How much will it traumatize me?” he asked. “Or worse, give Danny ideas? Not that the teasing whelp needs them!”

“Let us visit Sergeant Cooper in his room and you will see why”, Sherlock said. “I promise that we will not tell Danny, because.... well, he will probably find out anyway. Which would be terrible as he might then go and tell Mother!”

We all shuddered at that prospect.

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The general led us the short distance to the new sergeant's rooms and made to knock, only for Sherlock to stop him.

“We do not wish to startle them”, he said, “especially given how dangerous that might be.”

His brother looked at him in confusion.

“You mean that they are at it now?” he asked incredulously. _“On my time?”_

“Yes and no”, Sherlock said enigmatically, taking out his lock-pick. “Here goes!”

He tapped lightly at the door, waited a couple of seconds then used his lock-pick. The door opened almost immediately and we all piled into the room, to find Sergeant Cooper and Private Vansant. Both very red – and the sergeant also very naked!

“What the hell?” the general exclaimed. “Cooper? What the hell are you doing?”

I glanced down to where the sergeant was standing on a large towel, then up to where his chest was now completely hairless. The private had put down his razor but looked equally guilty.

“Allow me to explain”, Sherlock said with a smile. “When Mr. Cooper here went home for his father's funeral he also spent time with Mr. Vansant, the son of his old tutor. Mr. Vansant wished to join the army and there was an incident in which Mr. Cooper played a jape on his friend which nearly had some very grave consequences indeed.”

Mr. Cooper had managed to grab another towel to cover himself and had sat on his bed blushing fiercely. His batman had very pointedly sat close to him.

“I was a bad kid”, the sergeant admitted, “and not much better when I became a man. When Benno here told me that he wanted to join up I suggested testing him on the beach near our home and.... I went too far. He was nearly drowned!”

He pulled the slightly shorter man into an embrace, careless of the rest of us. Mr. Vansant did not protest but went willingly.

“The hair thing was my idea”, the sergeant went on. “I was always proud – far too proud – of being so hairy, so I told Benno that he should shave it all off every fortnight. A permanent reminder of how my own damn stupidity nearly cost me the best friend that I ever had, and never deserved. He shaved me all over and it actually felt pretty good, although he had to be careful in, uh, certain areas.....”

“No details!” the general said firmly. “Or I will be cutting off something rather more than your hair, damnation!”

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A week later we received a telegram from Mr. Hunter thanking us for our help, and saying that his soldier-lover was happy again. It was quite unnecessary of him to continue by saying that the general would have written himself but 'he cannot hold a pen just now'. The young these days!

Sherlock may be in the next room as I write this, but I just know that he is smirking. Harrumph!

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	8. Case 331: Pro Patria Mori ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Just when John and Sherlock had thought it impossible to think any worse of the latter's oleaginous brother Randall, the lounge-lizard proves them wrong again. A remote Devonshire mansion is the setting for some ladies who, seemingly, are expected 'pro patria mori' – to die for their country.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This sordid business fell into the mercifully small category of cases that deserved to be published but could not for reasons of national security. More than many of the others I took notes on and arranged to bequeath to a later generation, this tale of gubernatorial malfeasance deserved to be read by as wide an audience as possible, especially by those who think that more government is the answer to everything. The only thing that it is the answer to is an incredibly stupid question!

It was June, and I was actually feeling quite happy as my arrangements to secure that Sussex cottage for John and myself had thus far proceeded more smoothly than even I could have hoped. Mr. Jubal Smith, the owner of the cottage, had been helpfulness personified despite his being but nineteen years of age and had agreed to all of my requests up to and including having his current tenancy finish there in April 1904, which would allow six months for some important changes to be made to the place (e.g. soundproofed windows and doorways, a bedroom on the ground-floor complete with reinforced bed, a luxury bathroom with a super-sized bath and shower, a 'play-room' – all those everyday essentials that a good house needs). The cottage was close to the village yet isolated at the end of a dead-end track; there was an old barn a few hundred yards along which a nearby farmer owned but that had its own track leading to the rest of the farm over the hill. It would be sheer bliss!

The only small downside was that because the final legal transfer of the cottage to Mr. Smith could not be effected until later this year, I was reluctant to tell John about it as I felt that it would be tempting Fate. I had also received a rather curious letter from my twin Sherrinford advising me to tell my love 'some time in September and I would know when'. Perhaps we would have a case somewhere nearby and I could take him there afterwards. Then take him there!

I may have had a one-track mind, but at least it was on the right track!

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The lady who was currently sat in the famous fireside chair at 221B was, I knew, not a lady as even the average Edwardian would have defined one. Morals might be looser after the Victorian era especially with a libertine on the throne, but few would have accepted Miss Estelle Telford as a member of society, given that she ran a set of (female) brothels across the capital. Yet in a way she was the female equivalent of our friend Sweyn, in other words the best in a generally sordid industry. She had approached him over something that had been worrying her and he had advised her to come to us.

“I may be fussing over nothing, Mr. Holmes”, she said, giving me the sort of look that would have greatly annoyed John had he not been away seeing to a rich hypochondriac all the way out in Surbiton (waste not want not; it would still annoy him when I 'accidentally' mentioned it later). “But Sweyn said that I should approach you over it.”

“Over what, madam?” I asked.

“Two of my girls have disappeared.”

I looked at her curiously.

“I know that the Metropolitan Police Service may have a variable reputation when dealing with your industry”, I said carefully, “but surely they would be the best people to approach in this matter?”

She hesitated for some reason. I was beginning to get that uneasy feeling that John sometimes described, one which never bore well.

“Girls start and stop all the time”, she said, “for a variety of reasons. But Penny, one of the girls who stopped coming, lives next door to another of my regulars Vera and she told me that the girl had just upped sticks and moved without warning. It was not right.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I know people always need places in this city”, she said, “but Vera said that Penny went on a Tuesday and there were new people in her room Wednesday. I have a nose for the odd in my business – I need it with some of my clients, as I am sure Sweyn could tell you – and I do not like it.”

“What about the other girl?” I asked. I was if truth be told a little uncomfortable with this 'girl' thing but I knew that Miss Telford like Sweyn would never employ anyone underage, and I commonly called his fellows 'boys', even the ones who were older than me.

“I sent round to ask about Sandy too”, she said. “Same thing with her; she was just gone one day and it was as if she had never existed. She too had new people in her room in under twenty-four hours.”

I thought for a moment. I could see the direction in which this case might be heading and I did not like it at all.

“Have either of the girls any family?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“No-one close to them in London”, she said. “That itself struck me as odd; most of the girls have someone even if it is someone they do not talk to for whatever reason. What do you think?”

“I do not like it”, I said. “Do you have anything else?”

“Just one thing”, she said. “Sandy asked her neighbour about a place called Halwill which she said was 'somewhere out west'. But that could mean anything, I am afraid.”

“It is something”, I said. “Leave me your address please, and I will make some inquiries.”

I did not say it and she did not remark on the fact, but we both knew instinctively that there might be rather more to this case than met the eye.

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John returned from his patient in a foul mood, as I had known he would be. Mr. Samuel Jakes was one of those annoying rich people who could magically acquire just any disease by reading about it, and would then argue with his doctor for hours about how he was sure it was a rare case of Advanced Mattox-Augustus Syndrome and most certainly not just a runny nose. Fortunately I had had time to send out to Branksome's for a chocolate cake and Mrs. Rockland had made him a large jug of her chocolate custard to go with it. Since I knew what time he could be back I could have my dinner early and then tell him the whole cake was his. 

His looking at the cake like he wanted to marry it, though – some people were so strange the way they went mad over certain foodstuffs. 

Some hours later a comfortably bloated John lay in my arms, sighing happily. There would be no Sexy Times tonight with him in this condition or that cake (the two-thirds of it that he had eaten) would be making a surprise reappearance, but I did not mind. His happiness was all to me.

“You think that this is another government scheme?” he asked. “Like poor Mr. Lannister and Mr. Dayne?”

Our friend Mr. Blackwater was due to move across Scotland to Nairnshire as part of our ongoing scheme to keep the American government from hunting down his lovers (or as he called them, his cruel and pitiless tormentors!). He had actually been set to move last week but it turned out that the small heatwave that had hit the country then was yet another thing that could trigger his lovers' 'heats', and poor Mr. Blackwater had had to endure two (actually four, two from each man) in quick succession. His move had been postponed until the end of this week when he hoped that he would be able to walk. Or at least hobble.

“Two girls with no familial connections disappear whereas others with family did not”, I said. “Miss Telford said that up till their departure neither girl showed any signs of unease; indeed several of their colleagues thought their moods quite good. John, do you know anything about a place called Halwill?”

He looked at me in confusion, blind-sided by the apparent _non sequitur_.

“Yes”, he said. “It was in the newspapers a few years ago. It is a small village† in mid-Devonshire near which they have built a major railway junction; they were speculating whether it might become a new Swindon or Crewe. I doubt that very much; local services to places like Bude, Torrington and Launceston do not a metropolis make.”

“Launceston”, I smiled. “That was where we met Mr. Persano, the 'mad' Portuguese, and his friend Mr. Poldark. I see that our foreign friend has made a full recovery but has decided to stay on in rural east Cornwall. I wonder what can _possibly_ be keeping him there?”

“A man not half as attractive as one who buys me chocolate cake”, he grinned. “Which is good, because I think that I can manage that last piece now!”

I sighed as he went across the the table.

“Passed over for cake!” I sighed in mock despair. “Woe is me!”

“Terrible when someone chooses food over a fellow, is it not?” he said, far too innocently.

I looked sharply at him. Was he being sarcastic again?

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A few days later Miss Telford came to our house again.

“I asked around like you said, sir”, she said grimly, “and it was as you feared. From my contacts alone some eight girls, all with no friends or family.”

“I fear that if we are not careful, we may have a Ripper-like situation here” I said. “Not hopefully in the horrors that that villain perpetrated but in the slow way that the newspapers came to the story because of the employ of the victims. I have made some inquiries but have found nothing so far; Mr. Tudor over at Middleton's is doing what he can with Miss St. Leger away but he knows that if he does too much then someone will alert her and she will immediately return from Switzerland, where I know that she has always wanted to go. I did find out one thing, though.”

“What was that?” Miss Telford asked.

“My cousin Luke told me that the government has a property near this place you mentioned, Halwill in Devonshire”, I said. “I rather wonder what they are up to down there.”

I was as it happened not that far from finding out – from a rather unexpected source!

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After Miss Telford left, John and I were about to go for a walk in the Park when another card was sent up. I read the name with surprise then passed it to John, who groaned.

“Your brother Guilford?” he sighed. “What does _he_ want?”

“We had better have him up”, I said. “He had a fall at work recently and was in hospital for several days, so at least he cannot have got up to much mischief there.”

“You do _know_ your brother?” John quipped.

I swatted at him, no matter how right he was (very).

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The other surprise of the day was that Guilford, who had just turned fifty, was not alone. A lady of similar age and dressed in quite a manly fashion for the age accompanied him, and did not so much help him to the couch and almost bodily shove him into it.

“Name's Petra Shepherd”, the lady said gruffly. “I work as a nurse at the hospital down the road, and this fellow tried to play a jape on me when I was heading home after a long shift. Lucky for him it was only ten steps from the hospital door; I decked the idiot!”

I tried to hold back a smile but signally failed. John did not even try. The lady turned on Guilford.

“He has something to tell you”, she said firmly. “Gil?”

“Do I have to?” Mr. Guilford Holmes whined.

“Unless you want another week in which I'll get your mother to come read you more of her stories!” Miss Shepherd said brusquely.

 _That was motivation and then some_ , I thought at my brother's horrified face. He spoke quickly.

“Randall is the one behind this Halwill thing”, he said, looking almost fearfully at the lady. “He does not know that I know; I came across it by chance only the other week. I do not know what it is all about but it is a pet project of his; he has been up and down to Devonshire like a bleeding yo-yo.... ouch!”

Miss Shepherd had whacked him with her bag.

“Language, Gil!” she barked.

“Sorry”, my brother muttered, looking unusually shamefaced for him. “The only thing he would tell me was 'lambs to the slaughter'; I had no idea what that meant.....”

Miss Shepherd was looking at him. He cringed.

“Stop that!” he whined.

“Then start telling the truth, Gil!” she snapped. “Now, before I get upset enough to go to your house and fetch the Mother!”

He shuddered at that, as well he might.

“'Lambs' is what Randall calls his 'conquests'”, he said, clearly poised to duck away from the next blow wherever it came from. “He thinks that no-one, least of all Muriel, will know when he talks about fleecing and..... that sort of thing.”

It sounded somewhere between incredible and farcical. Randall having ladies of negotiable affection conveyed over two hundred miles to Devonshire; there was surely no earthly reason. Unless.....

Oh. My. God! That was disgusting even by Randall standards!

“That is all I know”, Guilford insisted. “Promise!”

Miss Shepherd leaned forward and stared closely at him. He shuddered, but there was nowhere for him to retreat to. She nodded her head.

“He is telling the truth this time”, she said. “Well, Mr. Holmes? What are you going to _do_ about it?”

I half-feared that she was going to start setting about me, or worse, go for Mother who I knew was in the middle of a particularly heavy eight-piece story from the Dark Ages. The temptation to join Miss St. Leger in Switzerland was suddenly rather great.

“John and I will go down to Devonshire tomorrow”, I promised. “Who knows what we will find there?”

Unfortunately I had a very good idea as to exactly what we would find there. Like John, the trouble with so often thinking the worst was what when it came to governments, one was so often right!

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There was actually no reason for me to go all the way to mid-Devonshire, apart from the terrible fear that Miss Shepherd might indeed being in the Mother. But John's description of the railway junction in the middle of nowhere had intrigued me and I decided that we could have a trip down there. And we did not go alone.

“I would say that your slappable brother would not be that stupid a Lord knows what number we are up to now time”, John sighed, “but I know him!”

“I know there is a saying that all is fair in love and war”, I said, “but I do not think that we can enter the forthcoming war with the Germans and claim the moral high ground while showing the same disregard for human life as they do.”

“Human life?” he asked anxiously (I could see him fingering his gun). “There have been deaths here?”

“Not yet”, I said, “but there will likely be if it is not stopped. Which is why I intend to stop it.”

“What is going on, brother?” 

We turned to greet the lady who had just emerged from the lavatory.

“Hello Muriel”, I smiled, risking a quick glance at my watch. “Thank you again for coming with us.”

“What has that husband of mine been up to this time?” she asked angrily. “Every time I think that he cannot be more of a fool, he proves me wrong.”

“I am afraid that he has plumbed new depths even for him”, I sighed. “Let us enjoy the summer sun and sit outside while I tell you about it.”

We all sat down.

“Some time back a certain government official known to all of us assembled here came up with a foul and disgusting idea and no John do not feign surprise” (my love pouted at my omniscience). “Knowing that even foreign diplomats will want their pleasures, he arranged for several 'ladies of negotiable affection' to undergo a new and utterly vile training programme.”

“Certain diplomats were targeted and offered whatever they wished for from certain ladies, subject to one condition, They would have to wear a condom. Thus far this seemed all above board but the inventor of this scheme had added his own set of twists. Most importantly, the insides of each condom was coated with various vile and unpleasant diseases that the man wearing it would be very likely to catch, after which he would then be open to all sorts of blackmailing possibilities.”

“That is disgusting!” my sister-in-law said firmly.

“I am afraid that there is a second part as well”, I said. “Naturally the selection of these ladies had to be done with care, so that their removal from London for training was not noticed. Only those without family or friends were selected, and they were spirited away to a government centre near here. Part of their training was to show what they could do to the very person who had invented the scheme who was.....”

I looked up, and there with the most excellent timing for once in his miserable existence was Randall, sauntering onto the platform as bad as ever. And because of the angle of the sun he would not be able to see us as clearly as we could see him. I could feel my sister-in-law tense and reached into my pocket.

“Here”, I said, passing something to her.

She looked down, then up at me in confusion.

“Half a brick?” she asked.

“For your reticule”, I smiled. “It increases the impact!”

John only just managed to bite back a snort of laughter as she took the brick and slipped it into her reticule, then walked casually up along the platform to behind her husband. She took two steps forward and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round, and had about three seconds for his astonishment before.....

_Pow!_

John sighed.

“I suppose that I had better go and treat him”, he said. “Hippocratic Oath and all that.”

He stood up and looked around, then took a half-step forward and hesitated while Randall writhed on the ground and tried to avoid Muriel's heavy boots. I noted that the station officials seemed equally tardy in rushing to help as well.

As John would say, oh dear how sad never mind!

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Because I was a generous brother, I paid for Randall's battered body to be transported back to London and to a nice hospital, which by an un-amazing coincidence was the one just round the corner from our parents' house. Perfect for visits by Mother when she wanted to 'read the dear boy better', as she for some inexplicable reason put it. 

I did hope that we might see Mr. Poldark and Mr. Persano as we were in the area but a wire told us that the Portuguese had unluckily taken the Cornishman to his homeland for a month. We did however call in on Charlotte and Clesek Trevithick who confirmed the two young men were, in their words, 'as bad as ever'! Then we went for some time in Plymouth after which we could catch an express all the way back to London, a journey that we spent the whole time just quietly holding each other.

John says that if anyone out there believed _that_ , then he has a bridge to sell them. For cash.

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_Notes:_   
_† Thanks to the wonders of the nationalized railway system, all the lines through Halwill Junction are now closed and a housing-estate has been built on the site of the station. Hence Halwill Junction village looks rather odd on a road-map._

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	9. Case 332: The Adventure Of Shoscombe Old Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. A lighter case for the dynamic duo. As the Empire tenses over the future of its new king-emperor, Sherlock and John return to the East Riding of Yorkshire for a most unusual treasure-hunt where the clues are obvious – but only to any passing brilliantly immodest consulting detective, of course!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was July, and we were once more travelling up the East Riding of Yorkshire. It had been a tumultuous last few months since the Savage case and the horrors of that had contrasted sharply with the 'soulful' affair of the American detectives, the 'trifling' matter of the Maberleys and Sherlock's involvement in matters concerning his brothers Carlyon and Randall. And if we had had our ups and downs then so had the whole country, which was still drawing breath after a narrow escape of the monarchical variety. 

Although many (including myself if I was honest) had been nervous about the prospect of King-Emperor Edward the Seventh acceding to the throne, the announcement that his reign might be curtailed by his recently-diagnosed appendicitis had come as a shock. The coronation had been postponed and the monarch operated on – a type of operation for which the Empire had been warned success could by no means be guaranteed. Fortunately my colleague Doctor Treves who last year had performed the same operation of General Carlyon Holmes's lover Danny had once again been successful and our monarch was now out of danger, the coronation having been rescheduled for next month. 

I have always considered the East Riding to be one of the 'forgotten' parts of England, barely noticed by those passing it on their way to distant Scotland. Hull (properly Kingston-upon-Hull) was of course its principal port famous for its critical role in the English Civil War, and we changed there for a branch-line to the pretty little seaside town of Hornsea. There we were met by the gentleman whose summons had brought us here, Sergeant Horatio Wilton of the Yorkshire Police, an amiable fair-haired giant of a policeman (and of course, depressingly young like they all were these days!) who seemed more than a little relieved at our arrival. The wind off the North Sea was blowing the fellow's wheaten locks into almost as bad a mess as that of the blue-eyed genius next to me.

Almost. Sherlock was in a class of his own when it came to bad hair. For once I was only partly responsible. Look, it had been a long journey, and I had seen no reason to waste a very good and very private first-class compartment. Besides a doctor's bag was useful for the transportation of all sorts of, ahem, 'equipment' Some even of the medical variety!

Sherlock, being Sherlock, had to go and look pointedly at me just as I was thinking that. I gave silent thanks for the foresight that had had me wearing my looser trousers. Even in a wind that had seemingly come straight from the Arctic, I could feel things stirring where they really should not have been.

“I am sorry to summon you gentlemen up here at such short notice, sirs”, the sergeant said, dragging my mind away from its seemingly preferred gutter location, “but I really hoped that you could help me avert a tragedy here.”

“So you said in your telegram”, Sherlock said, as we left the town behind and bowled along the track (I am being extremely charitable in so defining it) north towards distant Bridlington. “Pray, who is in danger and how exactly do you think that our presence can avert a tragedy?”

“I have something to show you up ahead first”, he said. “About a mile on from here. It helps explain what's been going on, and I am sure that the doctor in particular would be interested in it.”

I looked at him in surprise.

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A few minutes later we stopped by a farm gate. The only thing odd about it was a poorly-maintained gravel track which led through it and about halfway towards the distant bay before petering out. But there was something familiar about the field either side of it with strange markings either side of the track. My mind sprang back to Rutlandshire and the lost village of Martinsthorpe; the first part of our adventure at the Priory School had coincidentally appeared in the 'Strand' magazine only last week.

“Another abandoned village?” I asked. 

“Sort of”, our guide said. “This is Shoscombe-on-Sea†, or rather it was supposed to be. See that big house on the cliff top a mile up ahead?”

We both looked. There was indeed a house there, a ruin by the looks of it perched perilously close to the cliff edge with what had to have been an amazing sea view. A sea view that was probably going to be even closer quite soon, to judge by appearances.

“That is Shoscombe Old Place”, the sergeant said. “The late Mr. Abraham Dannett lived there. The coast here advances and retreats pretty quick over the years and a large part of the cliff beyond the house fell into the sea only five years back.”

“What about this place?” Sherlock asked.

“It was supposed to be a new seaside resort to rival Bridlington and Scarborough”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Dannett hoped that the railway that you came up would be extended here and then through to Bridlington but the place never took off, abandoned before it was even started. The whole thing did a lot of damage to the family's finances – which is where I am hoping that you gentlemen can ride to the rescue.”

“Like the cavalry”, Sherlock smiled. “It is an interesting tale. But I do not see any imminent danger, except to that house.”

“Mr. Abraham, the father of the current owner Mr. Arthur, died some four years back just when this place had failed to make a go of it”, the sergeant said. “They had already abandoned the Old Place and moved to a new house in Shoscombe village half a mile inland. The old man had not been on good terms with his son and heir; word was that he thought the boy had not really tried hard enough to make a go of the resort, especially after he went and missed a meeting with railway officials over the possible extension.”

“Last month Mr. Arthur decided to sell off the Old Place to a local builder. When he did so, he unknowingly triggered a secret clause in his late father's will. The lawyer Mr. Percy Poddington – a right oily little git in my humble opinion! – posted a note on the wall of the Royal Oak in the town that there was a great treasure in the abandoned place for anyone who cared to take it. The sale was put on hold for six months, much to Mr. Arthur's annoyance. As you can imagine it has been crawling with people ever since and last week half of the garden fell onto the beach, luckily at night. I am afraid that someone will get hurt if only because of all that wear and tear.”

“So you want us to find it and prevent someone going into the sea along with the house and maybe half a dozen other treasure-hunters”, Sherlock said. “I see. Surely if he still owns the property, Mr. Dannett could simply claim ownership of the item once it is found?”

“His father revoked all the family's rights to it under the will”, the sergeant said. “So it is basically finders, keepers, though knowing our Mr. Arthur it is probably also the finder's right to be sued by the pernicious Poddington the minute that they find it.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I would welcome your personal opinion about Mr. Arthur Dannett, sergeant”, he said. “I presume that his family have been here for a long time?”

“Legend has it they came over with Edward the Fourth in 1471 when he reclaimed the throne from that idiot Henry the Sixth”, the policeman said. “They have certainly been here as long as most people can remember and they are not popular. Some of the villagers used the resort beach for their fishing-boats – it is safer than by the village where the cliffs run close in and rockfalls are a danger – but Mr. Abraham tried to stop them while he was planning for his great new resort. That hit people pretty hard. Local opinion is that while Mr. Abraham was not up to much, his son is worse; I know his tenants do not like him at all. Which means that pretty much everyone is up for a chance to snatch the family fortune.”

 _“If_ it exists”, Sherlock said with a smile. “It might be the late Mr. Abraham Dannett's way of pulling a belated prank on all the people who disliked his family as well as on his own son.”

The sergeant's face fell.

“I never thought of that”, he said glumly. 

“Cheer up”, Sherlock said. “We shall work on the assumption that he was not that cruel, if only because otherwise our presence here is pointless. Let us see what we can do.”

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I did not really believe in ghosts or the supernatural, although our not too distant adventure in West Suffolk and that narrow escape that Sherlock had had at Tonbridge had made me wonder. Either way I felt decidedly nervous as Sherlock, the sergeant and I entered the shell of Shoscombe Old Place. Everything of value had been taken but there were still signs enough that a family had lived here fighting the daily battle for existence that is humanity. The cold easterly wind blowing through the holes where the windows had been did not help.

Sherlock, the bastard, obviously knew that I was edgy and chose to put a hand on my shoulder from behind without warning. I jumped and gave what an uncharitable person might just have described as a relatively unmanly exclamation of surprise (it was most definitely _not_ a girly shriek, whatever anyone said), causing the sergeant to smile. I scowled at my soon to be ex-friend.

“You have told us, sergeant, that Mr. Abraham Dannett was not overly fond of his son”, Sherlock said, smirking far too loudly in my opinion. “Was there anyone else whom he might have regarded more warmly? Or perhaps I should say less coldly?”

“Not in his family, sir”, the sergeant said firmly, holding up his lantern. It was not yet dark but the bare grey walls reflected little of the sunlight that filtered through the gaping windows from the overcast skies. “The late Mrs. Dannett died three years before him; she had a few items of personal jewellery but he passed those on to her sister as she had requested. He only had a few distant cousins of whom he always said they were not distant enough; I would bet that they felt much the same! They all got the standards farthing legacy; I read somewhere that that was a legal thing to stop them challenging the will on the grounds they had been left out. He was fair with his servants though, I will give him that. All of them got legacies according to their station, more than their likes usually get from nobs these days. He even left a sum to the county's Police Widows and Orphans Fund which is something I help run; two of his uncles had been coppers although they had both passed. He was not really close to anyone, though.”

“A pity”, Sherlock said. “Let us assume that he played fair and left something here. It would have to be well-hidden or it would have been found already. Unless there is somewhere that the local people have not been able to look?”

“Only the old wine-cellars, sir”, the sergeant said. “We checked those thoroughly before sealing them off with cement. The steps down were rotten.”

Sherlock nodded and I went over to look at the bay window which had a bench cupboard. I opened it but found nothing except a rather large spider which I generously decided to leave in peace.

“This seems unproductive”, Sherlock said, smirking at me again for some reason. “Was there anything that the late Mr. Abraham ordered taken out of the house before he died, sergeant?”

“Only his flag, sir.”

“His what?” I asked.

“He claimed it was from an ancestor of his who fought at the siege of Hull, sir”, the sergeant said. “Civil war artefact. Tattered old thing; he had it preserved in a glass case and his son now has it on loan to the local museum. He used to fly a copy outside the building but the flagpole got blown over shortly before he died.”

“I think that I should like to see that flag”, Sherlock said. “I feel that Mr. Abraham Dannett was the sort of person who would have left some sort of clue, rather than just have everyone search fruitlessly and perhaps someone get lucky by sheer chance. Let us go and examine it.”

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We walked back down to the village and I for one was glad to leave the old ruin behind us. The curator of the museum was a white-haired old gentleman called Mr. Burton and he was talking to a dark-haired fellow of about forty years of age in a sharp suit who turned out to be none other than Mr. Arthur Dannett. He looked at us dubiously when the sergeant introduced us but agreed that we might look at the old flag. As it was on display in a public museum, I hardly saw how he could have stopped us!

“I thought that the old man had done something with it”, Mr. Dannett said. “He was mad keen on flags – he had several copies made because the one he flew outside kept wearing out what with the weather round here – and he wanted me to keep flying the family one in my new place which I do.”

“You have your own flag?” Sherlock asked.

“Seven horseshoes and a white rose”, the man said proudly. “The old man even had it officially approved by some bod down in London.”

“The Garter King of Arms”, I muttered, my opinion of this jackanapes lowering by the minute. 'Some bod' indeed!

“This is it”, Mr. Burton said stopping by a glass case. “As you can see it is a little damaged but definitely a Royalist flag from that time.”

I nodded. The flag was in fact about one-third gone but it certainly looked authentic. I do not know what if anything Sherlock had hoped to find in it but he looked disappointed.

“I assume that your father also maintained some spare flags?” he asked.

“Yes, and I kept them all except the one that he left to the church”, Mr. Dannett said. “That hangs over our family pew.”

“Do you still fly your own flag at your new house?” I asked Mr. Dannett. He nodded.

“Oh yes”, he said firmly. “We make sure everyone knows that there is still a Dannett in the area.”

 _Your ego alone should tell them that,_ I thought not at all cattily. 

Sherlock looked at me and coughed pointedly. Damnation, was he reading my mind again?

He did not need to nod at that point, either!

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The sergeant had booked us into Shoscombe's solitary and rather small inn, the Robin Hood, two single rooms unfortunately so I endured a rough night's sleep. Bizarrely, _not_ sleeping with a human octopus was strangely unsettling. Judging from his pallor the following morning my friend too had had little rest and we went for a short walk before breakfast. 

“The opinion amongst the people in the bar last night was that Mr. Abraham Dannett was indeed something of a practical joker”, Sherlock said as we headed back down the village's single road to the inn. “But they all said that he was a _fair_ man. The blacksmith said that he drove a hard bargain for anything he wanted but that he stuck to deals once they were made – unlike his son, as so many added – and he also said that he paid off all his bills prior to his death, unlike so many these days. I do not think that such a man would have left nothing for people to find.”

“Unless he disliked the local people as much as his son”, I said. “There seems to have been little familial affection in that family.”

We arrived back at the inn to find the sergeant waiting for us.

“I thought of something last night, sirs”, he said as we tucked into some indifferent breakfasts of sausage, bacon and eggs (Sherlock had insisted on ordering a meal for the sergeant who unsurprisingly had not objected). “You remember that plinth in the gallery, sirs?”

We both nodded.

“Well”, he said, “on it there was a replica of a ship that one of Mr. Dannett's ancestors claimed to have served on. A warship called the 'Guinnegatte'. He donated it to the museum.”

“Surely that is cheating”, I objected. “He told everyone that the treasure was in the house.”

“Perhaps that is it”, Sherlock said.

I looked at him.

“What is?”

“Possibly he said in his will that the treasure _was_ in the house. Not that it still is. Well done, sergeant. We need to go to the museum and check out that model immediately.”

The policeman's face fell.

“Immediately after breakfast”, Sherlock clarified.

Sergeant Wilton beamed. I bit back a smile.

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Mr. Burton was not unnaturally a little nervous about our examining let alone dismantling what he viewed as his model (even though it was technically the property of Mr. Dannett) so Sherlock said that he would telegraph London for an expert to come up and do a professional analysis without damaging it. We did make a cursory examination but it seemed like it was just what it appeared to be, a detailed model of an old-time ship. Otherwise the day passed uneventfully except that I noticed that the church had replaced the Union Jack of the day before with the Royal Standard. I asked the vicar, the Reverend Thomas Timmins, why this was.

“Every year we mark the siege of Hull”, he explained. “It was one of the turning points of the Civil War; if the King's supporters had been able to take it they could have marched south and fallen on London. The anniversary was on Thursday but we always have a special service the Sunday after it. I wanted to fly the flag yesterday but it was too windy.”

“This was a Royalist area?” Sherlock asked. 

“Hull was for parliament while Bridlington was Royalist”, the priest explained, “so we were in the middle. Bridlington of course was where Queen Henrietta Maria famously landed on her return; that the Hothams who were the leading family in the area did not try to intercept her as she passed through the Riding led many to suspect them of getting ready to switch sides, which indeed turned out to be the case. Luckily this is pretty much out of the road to anywhere so we avoided the fates of some other areas; it was not worth while wasting men on taking somewhere as small and insignificant as Hornsea when Parliament had the navy ready to grab it back once the soldiers were gone.”

I thought back to our recent case at Redford and shuddered. Those had been deadly dangerous times. Thank Heaven we lived in a more understanding age, in a country where we were no longer prone to fight each other over religion or other beliefs. Such attitudes belonged firmly in the past, or in less enlightened and far distant lands.

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The service on Sunday was a little long I thought, and we got to see Mr. Dannett and his family sitting in the family pew. Mrs. Dannett looked most formidable, about twice the size of her husband but with a similar jowly expression, and their three children (two sons and a daughter, all in their teenage years) looked mirror images of their father, the poor things. I was aware that Sherlock seemed distracted over something or other but I did not push. He would tell me in his own good time. 

When the service was over we all trooped out and somehow I contrived to lose him. I was sure that I only took my eyes off his for a moment to talk to the vicar but no, he was gone. I could not find him anywhere until he came out of the church looking far too pleased with himself.

“I think that I am getting to rather like the late Mr. Abraham Dannett”, he said enigmatically. “Tell me reverend, is the family flag in there only hung out for special occasions like today?”

The vicar looked confused.

“Not exactly, sir” he said. “Normally it hangs from the high rail above the family pew, but for today's service it is always moved to directly opposite the door.”

Sherlock thanked him and we left. I waited until we were alone before turning on him.

“What did you discover?” I demanded.

“I think that I may have found where the treasure is”, he said. “We need to go back to the Old Place to see if it is still there.”

“How do you know?” I demanded. He walked a little away from me, grinning.

“I will tell you later!” he called over his shoulder.

Sometimes I hated him!

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Sherlock called in at the lawyer's office next and came out smiling even more broadly.

“Did you learn anything new?” I asked.

“As I suspected the Dannetts were originally Roman Catholics”, he said airily. “They did not convert to the Protestant faith until just after the Restoration.”

Obviously that meant something, and equally obviously I was not to be told. I scowled but followed him as we hired two horses to take us what turned out to be the beach at the ill-starred Shoscombe-on-Sea. It felt more than a little eerie, riding down a 'High Street' that would now never have any houses and I was glad when we reached the end and we tied the horses to a handy gate-post. He led me down onto the stony shore and turned to me.

“This had been an interesting case”, he smiled, “and I think I now know where to look for the treasure that the late Mr. Abraham Dannett so cleverly hid.”

“Where?” I asked at once. He smiled at my impatience.

“When I was in the church I looked up at the family flag that normally hangs directly over the heads of his son and his family”, he said walking slowly towards Shoscombe Old Place as he spoke “It struck me that from what I knew of his character, the late Mr. Abraham Dannett would have taken particular pleasure in placing the solution to his challenge in the one place that he would never think to look for it. Once everyone had left the church I examined the flag more closely. There were messages sewn into both the white rose and the horseshoe pins. The rose first; the message there was _'vita sicut acta'_ , which is dog Latin for 'life is a beach'.”

 _(I am informed that 'dog Latin' is another phrase now used much less than when this story is set. It refers to a phrase like the one above when an English expression is translated word for word back into Latin, yet the Romans themselves would never have used it thus. The most famous of these is of course_ illegitimi non carborundum _which equates to 'do not let the bastards grind you down'!)._

“The treasure is on the beach?” I said following him. It was a long beach, stretching almost a mile from end to end. He shook his head.

“Then there was what the sergeant told us, which was only half-true”, he said.

“He lied?” I asked, surprised.

“I did not say that”, he said. “He told us that the late Mr. Abraham Dannett had said that the treasure was in the building. That however was not what the will actually _said_ ; as I had thought the wording was important. The will stated that the treasure was within Shoscombe Old Place but _not_ in the grounds around the house.”

“I do not see the difference”, I said not pouting. We were almost up to the cliff beneath the building by now though because of the angle we could no longer see it. Unless it decided to fall on us!

Sherlock turned and stared back southwards, seemingly looking for something out back towards Hornsea. I followed his vision but could see nothing except a distant boat or ship, too far to make out any detail.

“Do you think.....?” I began turning back to him.

He had vanished.

I stared around in shock. We had been almost at the far end of the bay and the sheer rock face ran out into the sea. Unless he had grown wings had flown off, I could not see where he had gone. 

“Sherlock!” I yelled.

Incredibly he materialized from behind the sheer rock face. I stared in shock.

“A clever illusion”, he explained. “There is an entrance just behind it.”

I shook at the sudden cold but duly followed him. The passage behind the cleverly-used rock-face was much wider than I would have expected and clearly led towards the Old Place.

“This was a largely Catholic area in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries”, he said, “but there was always the danger that the Protestant authorities might descend on the house unannounced to try to seize the owners. I deduced that there must have been a secret passage out to the beach so that they could escape if necessary.”

“I am surprised that Mr. Arthur Dannett did not know about it”, I said. 

“Mr. Abraham Dannett recognized his son's disregard for history and decided not to tell him”, he said. “I dare say that he told any of his servants who did know of it that he had had the place sealed up, which was partly true. He sealed off the entrance from the building end, but that still left the sea-entrance. If I have this right then the treasure should be in the sealed room behind the old entrance, hence technically 'in the Old Place' but only accessible from the beach in the clue.”

“Sneaky”, I said, admiringly.

The passageway ended at some steps which ascended to a door. Sherlock easily picked the lock and we entered to find an almost totally empty room apart from one old table on which stood a small gold treasure-chest about a foot all round. My friend opened it, looked inside and smiled.

“We have succeeded!” he said. “Come, let us go and make sure that this goes to the people that the late Mr. Dannett would have wished it to.”

I nodded and followed him from the room. We were almost back on the beach when he suddenly stopped and I almost ran into him.

“But before we go”, he growled, “I will make up for my little disappearing act with several rounds of sex on the beach!”

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How what was left of me made it back to the horses, the Lord alone knew! The ride back was absolute agony!

Absolute and blissful agony!

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The next day Sherlock took me back to the Old Place via the more conventional front door. It was cold for the middle of summer and I shivered, thinking longingly of Baker Street and a roaring fire. Then I thought of the hours-long journey back locked in a first-class compartment with a complete and utter sex-maniac, and I shivered for quite a different (if very pleasurable) reason.

“I asked Sergeant Wilton to bring Mr. Arthur Dannett and his lawyer here”, Sherlock said, looking at me knowingly. “We should not have to wait too long for them.”

I nodded, willing the men to arrive quickly. It seemed like an eternity before they did but finally there came through the open doorway and Sherlock led us all into what had once been the gallery. He turned to Mr. Dannett.

“I wish to be quite clear about the terms of this 'treasure-hunt'”, he said. “Your father revoked all rights to the items that he hid in this house, did he not?”

“He did, the old fool!” Mr. Dannett said angrily. “Poddington here is champing at the bit to have a go at anyone who tries to walk off with it!”

Sherlock nodded.

“One of the terms is that each seeker can take what they can carry from the house, is that not the case?”

The landowner looked at him uncertainly.

“Yes”, he said. “What? You think that you have found it?”

He sounded utterly incredulous. Sherlock smiled knowingly then reached down behind the plinth and produced the treasure-chest that he had found the day before, to the visible shock of all three men. Opening it he withdrew two large leather pouches. He carefully opened the first and poured the contents out onto the wide flat surface. It contained a large number of tarnished old coins and was..... frankly uninspiring.

“Is that it?” Mr. Dannett said scornfully. “A few old pennies?”

Sherlock smiled and emptied out the second bag just as carefully. The contents of this were rather more impressive – a number of small pieces of gold jewellery and several large cut gemstones. Mr. Dannett stepped firmly forward. 

“Mine, I think!” he said, quickly pushing the treasure back into the pouch. He made to leave but Sherlock grabbed him by the hand.

“One moment”, he said. “I believe that _I_ was the person who found these gewgaws. I do tend to have these things called _fees_ , sir.”

The look on the man's face was almost comical as he clutched his treasure to his chest. He looked around desperately and his eyes fell on the pile of old coins.

“Do you accept payment in coin, Mr. Holmes?” he asked hopefully.

Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner.

“I suppose that I could sell them and keep one or two as a memento”, he said resignedly. “Very well.”

The landowner could hardly suppress his glee and actually collided with the door-frame in his haste to leave, his lawyer following him out. Sherlock replaced the coins in the remaining pouch and smiled.

“You let him take the treasure, sir!” the sergeant said accusingly.

“I suggest that we adjourn to the inn”, Sherlock said, “before nature takes its course and we end up on the beach along with this old ruin. Come, gentlemen.”

He led the way out and we both followed.

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Over three pints of a pleasant local beer Sherlock sat back and placed the remaining pouch with its unexciting contents on the table in front of us.

“How did you know where to look?” I asked.

“Mr. Abraham Dannett told me”, he smiled. “In fact he told anyone who had their eyes open. I was just the first to get the message.”

“Get what message?” the sergeant asked. 

“Mr. Abraham did not like his son”, Sherlock said, “which having met him I can quite understand, so he planned a little revenge. No, I take that back. It was an impressively large revenge and I have to doff my hat to the gentleman wherever he is now.”

“He first converted as much of the estate as he could into something small that could easily be hidden away somewhere. He covered his tracks exceptionally well; it took even the resourceful Miss St. Leger nearly half a day to find out what he had done.”

“The jewels”, the sergeant said, nodding.

“However Mr. Abraham was above all a _fair_ man”, Sherlock said. “His dealings with the business people in the town were often hard but he kept to his word once it had been given, something that quite a few of his class could take a lesson from. He made sure that the details of the treasure's hiding-place lay in plain sight all along.”

“The family flag in the church”, I said.

“That flag, sergeant, had two clues on it, both in Latin”, Sherlock said. “The first led us to the beach and the discovery of the old secret passage for use in more turbulent times and which Mr. Abraham had had sealed off at the house end. Hence he was able to go down to the beach and up inside his house, placing the treasure where only someone doing the same could hope to find it. I would wager that the old man chuckled every time he thought of his son in the family pew and the clues to where the treasure was hanging just a yard or so above his head. If he had ever glanced up and looked closely, he would have seen it.”

I nodded.

“I still do not see why you let him have the treasure, though”, the sergeant said, looking annoyed. “I mean, it is not as if he needs the money.”

“You, presumably, would have donated it all to the Widows and Orphans Fund”, Sherlock grinned, “and not have kept a..... _penny_ of it.”

“Of course”, he said. “Money cannot buy happiness; everyone knows that.”

I stared at Sherlock. I knew him well enough by now to know when there was something behind that pause.

“Oh my Lord!” I blurted out.

The sergeant looked at me in surprise.

“Not a penny!” I gasped. “Those jewels and all that gold – _they were fake?”_

“Indeed”, Sherlock grinned. “Fool's gold appropriately enough, and some nice, sparkly rhinestones. I only wish I were there when Mr. Abraham finds out, although if the wind is in the right direction perhaps we may hear the resultant scream.”

“So there was no treasure?” the sergeant asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“The second clue on the flag was another Latin phrase'”, he said. “Hidden in the pins of the horseshoes were the words _'omnis quis coruscat non est or'.”_

The sergeant looked unsurprisingly nonplussed. I guessed that dog Latin phrases did not travel particularly well in the East Riding of Yorkshire.

“Shakespeare”, I explained. “'All that glisters is not gold'. From 'The Merchant of Venice'.”

Sherlock pushed the pouch of coins across the table to the constable.

“Miss St. Leger thinks that she has tracked down most if not all of Mr. Abraham Dannett's monetary purchases”, he said. “He knew his son's character was such that even if he did find the treasure he would go for 'all that glistered' rather than 'a few old pennies'. Let us therefore take a moment to consider poor Mr. Arthur Dannett who has in the presence of a doctor, a lawyer and a police officer renounced all rights to the real treasure that he had within his reach yet passed over. I do hope that the widows and orphans of East Riding's brave policemen appreciate his _bounteous_ munificence!”

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We stayed an extra day in Yorkshire during which Sherlock did an interview with a local newspaper. In it he thanked Mr. Arthur Dannett for so kindly donating the treasure to the Police Widows and Orphans Fund, a move which left the irate landowner even more powerless to react as he had indeed waived his rights to the coins in front of four witnesses. The coins were soon valued and turned out to have a total worth in excess of two thousand pounds sterling‡. The local constabulary presented Sherlock with a framed copy of the most expensive one, a denarius, and my friend kept it proudly on display on his bookcase in Baker Street.

Right next to That Photograph, damn him!

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_Notes:_   
_† Shoscombe-on-Sea is based on the real-life 'failed' Victorian town that never was of Ravenscar, further up the Yorkshire coast._   
_‡ A minimum of £220,000 ($270,000) at 2020 prices, probably far more as the value of rare coins always outstrips inflation by some distance._

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	10. Case 333: The Adventure Of Salt And Binegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. In one of those strange coincidences, Sherlock and John immediately encounter another case where a dying man has done something devious with his will. And as always, where there's a will there's a relative – in this case four very unpleasant relatives all of whom demand what is due to them. So Sherlock makes sure that they get it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the death of Crosby, the banker.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The events of this story took place in the long, hot August of that year, shortly after the delayed Coronation of King-Emperor Edward the Seventh. They arose out of a run of deaths which led to this curious case. I should also say that none of these deaths were suspicious – _which frankly made a nice change!_

I may have very occasionally glanced in passing at the society pages of the 'Times' just once in a while (and some blue-eyed genius could stop with the smirking right this minute, damn him!) as I found some of the characters therein colourful, to say the least. One such was William, fifth Earl of Presteign, a prodigious Marcher lord who although not yet forty had fathered some twenty-nine children of which just seven had been from his five wives! Of his legitimate offspring his eldest daughter Penelope had married a Mr. Walter Crosby, which gentleman had subsequently taken up a post in a private bank owned by his new father-in-law in the port of Liverpool. It was there that he met an untimely end courtesy of the recently-opened electric railway, in a train crash that had occurred late the previous year.

If Earl William had the pedigree then he was at least matched in his financial strength by his son-in-law's family. Mr. Walter Crosby's grandfather had been none other than Mr. Job Binegar, better known as the Salt King of Derbyshire because of all the salt-mines that he owned. Mr. Binegar had had but one child, a daughter Mary who had married twice, first to Mr. Crosby's father Patrick who had died in an influenza outbreak back in 1871, and then some four years later to a Mr. Agamemnon Jones who had died curiously the very day after Mr. Patrick Crosby albeit in a different country. Poor Mr. Jones had been singularly unfortunate; while travelling in France he had been mistaken by someone who had thought he was the gentleman cuckolding him, and the Frog had shot him right there on a railway station platform. But then that is the French for you.

Mr. Binegar himself had died just over a year back – pneumonia; he had suffered it every winter for the past few years and had only narrowly survived it last year – and with his daughter also having passed his great wealth would in the normal run of events have been split amongst his four remaining grandchildren (i.e. Mr. Walter Crosby's stepbrother and step-sisters) with provision being made for Mr. Crosby's widow. As was common at the time a clause in the will prevented the estate being settled for a year and a day after Mr. Crosby's death, presumably in case the late Mr. Walter Crosby's wife Penelope had been with child (rather unlikely as she had been over fifty at the time). When no such miracle happened Mr. Binegar's will could finally be out into effect – which was where the _real_ trouble began.

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The gentleman who called us in on the case was one Mr. John Short, an unfortunate surname as he was some six foot six inches tall although very wiry and with that 'disco-ordination' that tall people (and in particular the glorious-haired younger brothers of famous modern writers) are sometimes wont to have as if the messages take longer to reach their limbs. Mr. Short was about forty years of age and was the manager in charge of the late Mr. Binegar's salt-mines; he had had to travel down to London to sign some paperwork concerning the company that was running the mines after his late employer's passing while they had waited to see if Mrs. Crosby was pregnant. He had decided to take the opportunity to call in on us as he was also a keen reader of my works, so he was clearly a man of excellent literary tastes.

'Someone' really needed to take something for that cough! I could recommend a three month non-bacon diet and damnation if I was not getting a mournful look just then!

“Mr. Agamemnon sir, he had been in charge of things under Mr. Binegar”, our visitor said folding his long limbs into the famous fireside chair. “No great shakes but he was all right, I suppose. His offspring, though – ugh!”

Sherlock looked amused by the fellow's frankness.

“Can you be a little more specific that 'ugh!'?” he asked.

“Orestes, Chrysothemis, Electra and Iphigenia”, the fellow said. “I looked it up – I was curious; who would not have been? – and they were the original Agamemnon fellow's children back in Greek times. But those four – sir, I am full afraid that they will ruin the estate between them and that my poor miners will be the ones to pay the price. Run a business? I would not trust any of them to run a bath!”

“Let us begin at the beginning”, Sherlock said reasonably. “First, what is this estate all told?”

“I do not of course know anything about the rest of it value-wise”, our visitor said. “I am only concerned with the salt-mines which are very profitable and yield a steady income to the estate, probably more than comes in from the land these days from what I have read elsewhere although I cannot know that for a fact. There is the big house of course – Knaveby Hall – and the family used to own the land for miles around though that has all been sold off now. They still own several properties in the village as far as I know.”

“You are unsure about that?” I asked, surprised.

“Like they did with the mines, I think they put them into a separate company that is still part of the estate”, Mr. Short said. “Garth who collected the rent under the old system still does it, so I assumed it was just some money thing they did for whatever reason. All these new taxes, most likely.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said. “If we put aside the investments in the mines to keep them up-to-date and profitable, then the late Mr. Binegar must have invested his receipts from those land sales somewhere. Art perhaps, or jewellery?”

“He has a lot of paintings up at the Hall”, Mr. Short said. “Ugly things but I suppose they may be worth something; they all looked modern to me. None of his grandchildren are married – Mr. Orestes the eldest is not yet thirty, I think – and Mr. Binegar enjoyed me taking my own children with me to see him though of course the Greek Chorus hated it.”

“He sounds like he was a most agreeable employer”, Sherlock smiled. “I am afraid that I shall have to ask you a somewhat personal question, sir. Did you yourself receive anything in the way of an inheritance from Mr. Binegar?”

The man smiled.

“Sort of, sir”, he said. “He gave out shares in the mines to all the men who had worked there for longer than a year in proportion to their service. He gave me something else, or at least my youngest, Peter; a wooden trinket-box that he liked to play with when he went to the house. To hear Mr. Orestes go on about it you would have thought that his grandfather had handed over the Crown Jewels!”

“I should have liked to see that”, Sherlock said.

The man put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out an object wrapped in a handkerchief. Opening it he revealed a carved box about four inches square and two inches in height. There was a single and rather dull large brown gemstone in the centre of the lid. It was what they call 'spectacularly unremarkable', and although I immediately recalled the 'old pennies' from our recent Shoscombe case, I could not but think that this really was the tat that it appeared to be.

“I had to promise Peter that I would take good care of this”, he said. “I did wonder if it was worth anything.”

Sherlock took the box and carried it over to the window to examine it.

“Well, I would have _liked_ to have told you that you are the proud possessor of a relic from the ancient Byzantine Empire”, he said, “and that this eighth or early ninth century creation is worth approximately ten thousand pounds!”

His blue eyes twinkled at our visitor and I just knew what was coming next.

“But you are not going to tell me that, are you?” the manager smiled.

“I would like to keep it for a few days, if I may”, Sherlock said, to our visitor's evident surprise. “Mr. Binegar went to a good deal of trouble to create something resembling an item of great antiquity. I would like to know why especially as it is, if I may be so bold, quite hideous. There are only four craftsmen – I correct myself; three craftsmen and one crafts _woman_ – in London capable of such precise work. Given what you have said about them I wonder that your Greek Chorus allowed it out of the house.”

“They would not, until Mr. Orestes had called in a jeweller from Buxton to examine it thoroughly”, our visitor said. “As you say sir, he rated it as worth only a few pounds. Poor Mr. Binegar only saw Peter a couple of times after he gave it to him; he went downhill rapidly at the end.”

“Does this Mr. Orestes live at the Hall now?” I asked. 

“They have all moved in while the estate is being sorted, sir”, Mr, Short said. “They had to wait until we all knew that Mrs. Crosby was not having any children post... post....”

“Posthumously”, I said. He looked relieved.

“That is the word”, he said. “As for the lawyer, he is a ghastly little gremlin called Mr. Medstead. I would not trust him an inch – he said that it will take a month before he can make a full evaluation of the whole estate and I would wager that he will be charging his fees the whole time. I had to sign some papers concerning the winding-up of the company Mr. Binegar put in during the wait, which was why I am all the way down here although the estate very fairly paid for my trip which was a relief. Only thing I can guarantee is that they will have to sell the Hall.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. The man chuckled.

“That lot agreeing to just one of them getting that place?” he scoffed. “More chance of Hell freezing over! Do you think that you can help, sir?”

I was surprised that Sherlock did not immediately say yes. This seemed exactly the sort of case we would both enjoy.

“I think that we _shall_ take your case, sir”, he said eventually. “Unfortunately I have a small governmental matter to hand courtesy of my annoying brother Randall. He may well die from shock if I dare to absent myself from the capital before it is concluded, and while I am indeed tempted to test that theory my dear mother might not be best pleased if it turned out to be correct.” He hesitated before adding, “well, _probably_ not.”

I smiled at that.

“I promise that we shall visit you in Derbyshire in between one week and ten days' time”, Sherlock said. “If you write your address on the notepad on the table there we shall telegraph you a precise date once we have one. Also the doctor will write your son a personal note from us promising to bring his beloved box when we come; I would like to have him feel confident that his 'treasure' is safe, no matter how hideous it is.”

The man did so, thanked us once more, took my short note and left.

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“I did not know that we had a governmental case”, I said warily. “And I thought that Randall was not out of hospital after all that 'lambing' he did in Devonshire.”

“Muriel will be keeping him on an even shorter leash after that”, he smiled. “He did actually discharge himself but fortunately his London place is still within easy walking distance of our parents' house, and Mother's Dark Ages saga is more advanced that I had supposed so she will be able to test out the early chapters on an obliging listener. He will be the first to enjoy the delights – if I can use that word with a straight face – of 'The Game Of Throwings'!”

I chuckled at that.

“I have an idea about this case already”, he went on, “but I needed to make certain inquiries first, starting today. They and certain other possible preparations may take some time, which was why I requested a week. You are writing today?”

I sighed.

“I must”, I said. “The public are ever demanding to know of your doings.”

He was suddenly right next to me, and touching me in exactly the right place. I got hard so fast that my eyes watered.

“When I get home tonight”, he growled, “you will find that I am quite demanding too, John. Especially” – he had somehow got his hand inside my trousers, and I groaned – “about _your_ doings!”

And before I could complain about his terrible sense of humour the bastard proceeded to jerk me off right there and then before going over to wash his hands at the small basin and sauntering from the room, a satisfied smirk on his face. Damnation! Now I would spend all day thinking about organizing a welcome home for him!

I smiled and went to get myself cleaned up.

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It was the following morning and what was left of me slowly came to. I ached in every single part of my anatomy but it was a glorious, satisfied ache. The bed was still warm and Sherlock had obviously wiped me down after my early-morning orgasm alarm call which had briefly shattered my slumbers before my poor broken body had returned to the Land of Nod once more. 

As I have said on previous occasions Sherlock was, for all his great mind, seemingly nervous that I might somehow lose interest in him if he did not keep coming up with new ideas for our couplings. So last night he has come up with a new idea based off my interest (lust) after him in a kilt. I had been the snarky subaltern whose job was to warm the bed of the lusty Scots colonel, who needed to work off his army frustrations the (very) hard way.

I was sure that I would be able to walk again some time today. Probably. I could always ask Sherlock to bring me my notebook and a pen. I would have considered getting a secretary but the last time that I had suggested such a thing he had mentioned that a certain Cornish ex-fisherman had excellent note-taking skills and could surely make himself available. _Over my dead body!_

Dimly I could hear Sherlock through the slightly open door; he was talking to someone. There was the delicious smell of breakfast and I hoped that he would have the decency to bring me some even if I knew that I would be handing him my bacon. He could feed me in return.

“Where is the doctor?” I heard Mrs. Rockland say. 

I smiled, wondering how Sherlock would explain my absence.

“I broke him!”

I heard her tinkling laugh and stared at the ceiling in shock. But then I supposed he was right and I could only hope that he tried to do it again, soon. There were a whole lot of 'employment possibilities' to work through. I wondered if the local library had a book with a list of them. Or I might order one from the bookshop.... _once I could move!_

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One week later I was fully mobile (and Mrs. Rockland had just about stopped smirking!), so we set off for Derbyshire. We took a Midland Railway train from St. Pancras Station which fortuitously stopped at Knaveby Hall Halt on request. I presumed, correctly I found out later, that the owner at the time the railway had been built had been granted that right in return for allowing it to cross his land as was common in those days (see, I was right about some things!).

Sherlock was coughing again, damn the fellow!

Knaveby Hall itself was something of a disappointment, a grey and rather decrepit building that had clearly seen better days and loomed over the village of the same name. Mr. Short had suggested that we would find it comfortable to lodge at the Bear & Ragged Staff Inn in the small village; I thought it a little curious that a name normally associated with the Earl of Warwick was this far north, but then I remembered that Derbyshire and Warwickshire did meet with Staffordshire and Leicestershire at the famous Four Shire Stone in the south of this county so perhaps it was not that surprising.

Sherlock had arranged for us to visit Mr. Short in his house on the day of our arrival although we had time to unpack first. I liked our twin room with its low-hanging beams and I especially liked the creaking stairway that cut us off from the rest of the building. I suspected (and hoped) that one of the beds would get little use... 

Damnation, he was looking at me again!

Mr. Short lived in a small cottage of which my first impression was that I would have expected something rather grander for a mines manager. He explained however that it came with the job as it was near two of the four mines that he covered. His wife, a charming lady called Evelyn, rose rapidly in my estimation when she did not immediately simper at my friend, then sank even more rapidly when she did so – twice! – while her husband was making us drinks. They had three children with the eldest having moved out, leaving the aforementioned son Peter who was twelve years of age and a daughter Beatrice who was nine and evidently had something wrong with her eyes when she looked at 'someone'.

Damn girl even sighed at him! I was _entitled_ to that eye-roll!

Master Peter Short was delighted with the return of his treasure; I thought (but obviously did not say) that the box looked even uglier in the dim light of the cottage, and we also presented his father with a signed copy of our latest collected works which he greatly appreciated. 

“Did you find out anything about the box?” Mr. Short asked after his son had taken his treasure away.

“Mrs. Cole of the Strand made the copy for your late master”, Sherlock said. “I learned that Mr. Binegar bid on the original when it came up for sale some time back. Presumably he wished to at least have a copy, having an inexplicable interest in ugly wooden boxes with unattractive jewellery decoration. It takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose. Have there been any developments in the case in the past week?”

“Only one”, the manager said. “I do not usually believe in miracles but the four up at the big house actually managed to agree on something and decided to let go the whole staff. I suppose most of them must have been expecting it what with the place looking likely to be sold, but I bet the Chorus regret it now.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Mr. Medstead told them afterwards that there were bits of the will that only came into effect if they did certain things, sir”, Mr. Short said. “I do not rightly understand it myself but Mr. Binegar managed to arrange it that if any staff was let go within a year of his passing then they qualified for shares in the mine like me and the long-servers did. And he said something about a 'challenge clause' though I do not know what that meant.”

“It is a clause inserted into a will to deter those who would contest it”, Sherlock explained. “People who wish to challenge such a will must first deposit a substantial amount of money as security which they forfeit if they lose. A clever move on his part; Mr. Binegar clearly foresaw what his grandchildren might be tempted to try.”

 _Given their characters it had probably not taken that much foresight_ , I thought.

“The Greek Chorus are up in arms about something else as well, sirs”, Mr. Short said. “Mr. Medstead said that the full will has to be read out in public, in the Red Lion next week.”

“I have a question for you”, Sherlock said. “After these four rather undesirable people, who is next in line to inherit the estate?”

Mr. Short looked surprised at that as was I but answered readily enough.

“That would be Mr. Benjamin Cohen, sir”, he said. “The late Mr. Binegar, he had one much younger sister, a Miss Deborah. She married late in life to a Mr. Jude Cohen, a Jewish gentleman from down Derby way but a very pleasant fellow. She had four sons, Mr. Benjamin being the eldest; sadly she died giving birth to the last, about fifteen years back. Mr. Jude passed last year.”

“How old is this Mr. Cohen?” Sherlock asked.

“Twenty-four, sir. He married two years ago and his wife has a child on the way. He told me that he plans to name it after his uncle if it is a boy; he promised the late Mr. Binegar that his first-born would bear his name.”

Sherlock was doing it again, looking hard at our host. He blushed fiercely.

“My eldest, Tom, he, uh, lives with Mr. Jude's youngest brother Mr. Israel down in Matlock. They.... uh.... they are... you know. Sort of.... that.”

“They are prone to waving their arms about for no apparent reason?” Sherlock asked, seemingly nonplussed. I swatted at him and turned away to avoid the inevitable hurt expression.

“Stop being mean, Mr. Consulting Detective!” I said reprovingly. “Sherlock knows full well what you are saying, Mr. Short.”

The manager looked intensely relieved.

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A week later it seemed that the whole village was trying to cram into the Red Lion to hear the reading of the late Mr. Binegar's will. Much to the annoyance of the Greek Chorus – who really were as frightful in person as they had been made out to be – Mr. Medstead insisted on moving matters outside so that everyone could hear as that had been his client's stated intention. Sherlock pointed out Mr. Benjamin Cohen and his wife to me; a most pleasant couple, I thought even if she was simpering at someone next to me.

_I really could not take him anywhere!_

The various minor gifts were dealt with first. Mr. Binegar had given several bequests to charity which I noticed that his grandchildren visibly disapproved of, and an amount to his nephew Mr. Cohen which earned four even starchier (and creepily synchronized!) looks, and then the recent staff inheritances (more starchy looks). Finally the lawyer got to the direct family inheritances.

“Lastly”, Mr. Medstead read, “the residue of my estate is to be shared equally between my four grandchildren; Chrysothemis, Orestes, Electra and Iphigenia Jones.”

There was a definite snigger from somewhere in the audience. Mr. Orestes looked as if he wanted to kill the culprit. So did his sisters. 

“I am obliged”, Mr. Medstead said, “to inform all gathered here as to the precise amount involved. After the deductions of the amounts triggered recently for the departed staff from the Hall, it stands for each of the four recipients at two shillings, sixpence three farthings†.”

I had often heard the phrase 'you could have cut the tension with a knife' but this time it was all too true. The silence was so shocked that I could hear some birds tweeting in a nearby tree. At least until Mr. Orestes found his voice.

“How on earth?” he yelled. “What the blazes are you taking about, Medstead?”

“The Hall is one hundred per cent mortgaged”, the lawyer said dryly, “and Mr. Cohen's bequest as stated includes the private company that runs both the salt mines and the properties. I am sorry to tell you, sir, that the cupboard is bare.”

He did not sound sorry one little bit. Frankly I did not blame him in the least.

“We shall see you in court!” Miss Chrysothemis screamed before she flounced off in a sea of virulent lime crinoline. Her brother and sisters followed her, arguing all the way. Sherlock grinned.

“That went about as well as expected!” he grinned.

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The agony of the Greek Chorus was compounded by the fact that the new owners of the Hall were insisting that they leave by the end of the month, and with no funds for any legal effort on their behalf it looked very much as if they would have to. I was sure that area would not exactly miss them.

“Why do you think it was?” Mr. Short asked as we sat there in the summer sun. “Bad investments?”

Sherlock smiled.

“On the contrary”, he said. “I think that the late Mr. Binegar was exceptionally skilled in his investment choices. I only hope that the ultimate beneficiary of his actions proves worthy of the efforts that he put in.”

We both stared at him in confusion.

“What efforts?” I asked.

“I am afraid that I started this case by having to lie to you, Mr. Short”, Sherlock said apologetically. “When you laid the facts before me the solution seemed simple enough, but to secure justice would clearly be somewhat more difficult. I needed a week in London to put in place certain arrangements before coming here. After all, although I was called in by you, I was clearly serving the interests of the late Mr. Binegar and that meant ensuring that the residue of his estate was inherited by the gentleman who deserved it.”

“But there is no residue”, Mr. Short pointed out. “Just a few bob each for the Greek Chorus. I would love to know what he spent all that money on, though.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Let us view things from the late Mr. Binegar's point of view”, he said. “He knows that with the untimely death of his preferred grandson Mr. Walter Crosby that his other grandchildren will inherit, squabble over and quite probably ruin his estate. There is, however, a much better alternative. His nephew Mr. Cohen who, by fortuitous circumstance, has a brother who is living with the son of his loyal mines manager. At the time that Mr. Binegar made his will he knew also that the first of the next generation was imminent, and that the firstborn male would one day carry on his name.”

“Parts of the estate – the property and the mines – he transfers to a private company which passes them onto Mr. Cohen later. This is a most clever legal device because it means that it cannot be challenged. However that still leaves a very large sum of money to hand.”

“Your son and his playing with items of jewellery gives him an idea. Working with Mr. Medstead – a gentleman who, by the way, is a rare example of decency in his profession and richly deserves his fees for all that he has done – Mr. Binegar mortgages the house and turns everything that he can into ready cash. He then invests it all into something small and unobtrusive.”

“Jewellery?” I asked. Sherlock smiled.

“A trinket-box”, he said softly. Mr. Short went pale. 

“You mean that my son.... that box.....”

Sherlock shook his head and reached into his pocket. He pulled out something wrapped in tissue-paper and opened it to reveal a trinket-box identical to the one that young Peter Short was playing with across the room.

“I told you that Mr. Binegar bid on the original box”, he said. “I may have neglected to mention that he was _successful_. Mrs. Cole did not think it unusual to be asked to produce a replica of such a masterpiece; many owners have fake copies of expensive items which they display in case of theft, and she particularly remembered the commission because of the urgency expressed by the client and, yes, the sheer ugliness of the item in question. As with all craftsmen – and craftswomen – she placed her own tiny mark on it to distinguish it from the original. If you hold the fake to the light at an angle of forty-five degrees, you will be able to make out a small letter 'C' through the stone.”

“Having had the fake box accurately valued by his suspicious grand-children's man, it is easy for Mr. Binegar to effect a swap and to make sure that your son leaves his house with the bulk of the estate's value wrapped up in a handkerchief. All his wealth is this safely carried out of the reach of his grasping grand-children. Excluding auction fees the price paid was, as I said earlier, around ten thousand pounds.”

Mr. Short gasped.

“My son.... but why?”

“Because Mr. Binegar trusted _you_ to do the right thing”, Sherlock said, looking pointedly at the manager. “He knew that you would make sure that it was passed to Mr. Cohen, especially as I said given that your son is living with that gentleman's brother. He also knew of your interest in my stories and hoped that you might seek out my help; doubtless he recalled the many times that I have applied justice rather than the strict letter of the law. He arranged your visit to London to sign some papers thinking it likely you would take the opportunity to call in on me. Finally, Mr. Binegar knew his village to the extent that had his nephew tried to visit him at all, everyone – and in particular the Greek Chorus – would have known, and he did not dare risk communicating his intentions in case his letters were intercepted. You, he knew he could trust.”

Mr. Short visibly pulled himself together.

“That he could”, he said. “I promise that I shall prove worthy of that trust.”

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Indeed he did. Mr. Cohen came into his inheritance at the same time as he acquired his first-born son whom he did indeed name after his late uncle. He very generously insisted on making an amount over to Mr. Short, who put most of it into a trust fund for his children and treated his family to a holiday with the rest. Mr. Cohen did not choose to live at Knaveby Hall as the building was condemned and had to be pulled down, but he and his family did move to a large house in the village. The Greek Chorus tried everything short of an open challenge to the will but ended up only poorer than when they had started; I doubt that many tears were shed for them. The mines went from strength to strength and Mr. Cohen, in gratitude for our help, gave us each some shares in the workings which added a nice little sum to my bank balance each quarter and, in Sherlock's case, made life at his orphanage even better for the boys therein.

We did in fact get to stay on for the celebration party at the Chorus's departure and had a nice two weeks in Derbyshire with some of the best walking country that England had to offer. Although thanks to some sex-mad detective, I was not really in a position to do a whole lot of walking.

If any!

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_Notes:_   
_† The inheritance per grandchild would equate to about £12 ($15) at 2020 prices. The box in comparison would have been worth at least £1 million ($1.25 million) although as with the coins from the previous story the prices of such items have far outstripped inflation, so it would probably have fetched a good deal more._

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	11. Interlude: Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. A 'helpful' Sherlock calls in on his soon to be ex-cousin Lucifer.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was Luke's own damn fault, all things considered. If he had not teased poor John when he had come round the other day, then he would not be facing such terrible consequences in – I glanced quickly at my watch – about ten minutes from now. Probably less, given the approaching terror.

Luke had been round to 221B in order to discuss a minor government matter in which I had very generously assisted him, and had repaid my kindness with a most uncalled for remark concerning John being in his sixth decade. I had had to spend most of the evening holding my love in a manly embrace – definitely not The Thing Starting With The Third Letter Of The Alphabet That Rhymed With Huddling – and had had to order several of Branksome's new and very expensive Death By Chocolate slices. Well, my cousin would regret that, and soon.

I noted the Panama hat ready by Luke's door, and grinned. Benji was due here any minute, which meant that my cousin was surprised (and probably annoyed) to see me just now. If he had not made that remark to John then I might have brought him some aftercare unguent from 'That Shop', because he was certainly going to be in need of it. More than even he knew.

“What is it?” he asked suspiciously. “Why are you here now? You must know that Benji is due here any minute.”

“Yes, to work off his angst at Bertha's latest additions to the Jackson-Giles dynasty”, I grinned.

As I had known it would, his face fell like a stone thrown off Beachy Head.

 _”Additions?”_ he gasped. Benji had had one set of twins already, Margaret and Alfred both now ten, and although that had been 1892 and I had been rather busy dispatching Moriartys all over the place, John had later told me that he had had to treat poor Luke afterwards – for complete and utter sexual exhaustion!

“Two girls, who Bertha plans to call Sarah and Jane”, I said. “Is that the door?”

He looked horrified, but further conversation was rendered rather inadvisable as Benji burst into the room panting as if he had run a race. He was however holding the Panama hat which he all but threw at my cousin, who somehow caught it despite his shock.

“I had better leave you to it”, I grinned. “Benji, I hope all those supplies I gave you come in useful. Let me know how that electric unguent works.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes sir”, Benji gasped. “Mr. Lucifer....”

My cousin was already gone, racing upstairs. But judging from the scream I heard as I closed the front door, he only made it about half-way before he was caught. Poor old thing.

Well, it had been years since I had had to attend a funeral!

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	12. Case 334: The Adventure Of Mr. Wolf's Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. The now grown Mr. Peter Wolf returns to ask for Sherlock's help a second time – once again for his cuddle bunny of a father who really could show some consideration for the younger generation!

_[Narration by Mr. Peter Wolf, Esquire]_

Into every life, they say, a little rain must fall. And this latest downpour started one morning over breakfast when my beloved Edie read me something out of the newspaper which, I was soon to realize, might have the most unpleasant consequences for someone that I loved dearly. Despite his being.... him!

“There has been a robbery at Dunston's Bank”, she said. “A large number of gold bars has been taken.”

She fixed our eldest son Peterson with a look across the breakfast-table which had the boy blushing and looking guiltily at his brother Edward with whom he had most likely been about to get into yet another argument. I sometimes wondered if she had psychic powers the way she did that, although I was more concerned about the fact she was less than a month from adding number seven to our brood. Worse, that she was actually considering the name 'Septimus'! Ugh!

“That is bad”, I said, thinking of both the robbery and her possible choice of name. 

She turned the look on me. I made a mental note to get the fire sorted; it was far too cold in this room.

“Was that not the place where your father has his pension money invested?” she asked.

Oh. That _was_ bad.

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It had been all of twenty years ago. I had been a teenage boy and Colt – Mr. Colgrevance Hamlin – had come into my and my father's lives. Then of course he had been that rarest of things, a gentleman applying to a job traditionally done by a lady, and my father had nearly had a fit when he had turned up for his interview (I suppose when the molly-man that you pay for sex turns up and offers to look after your teenage son, it might perhaps come as something of a jolt). Fortunately I had been able to persuade my father to employ the fellow and it had not taken me long to realize that a) there was definitely something between them which was rather more than..... the thing that I desperately did not want to think about, and b) the chances of either of them actually _doing_ anything about it were as remote as that giant planet they said was lurking way out beyond Neptune†. 

Fortunately at least one member of our household had some sense, even if he was only a teenage boy. I had approached the clever Mr. Sherlock Holmes who I knew had helped Colt before and, by devious tactics, the detective had engendered a jealousy in my father that had made him declare his true feelings. _Un_ fortunately I had then had to endure the best part of a decade with the two of them making cow-eyes at each other across the breakfast-table (along with several sights that no teenage boy should have _ever_ been subject to no matter how bad he may or may not have been on a very small if not minuscule number of occasions) before I could marry, flee the house a married man and start therapy. To be fair however they had always been considerate of my feelings, and having both of them at my marriage had been wonderful. 

Calling in on them on my return from my honeymoon and finding Doctor Watson treating my father for an ankle injury, and seeing both Colt's uncalled-for smirk and the hickey on my father's neck that could probably have be seen from the Moon – not so wonderful! In fact, ugh! But I could overlook that because I had never seen my father look as happy as when he was with Colt, who truly loved him even if he smirked far too much over.... things that I did not think about because I wanted to be able to sleep at night. I mean, my own father!

My wife was most probably right about the bank robbery – she was right on most things, although she really did not need to keep telling me that – so I decided to call round and see how things were with the disreputable duo. I knew that Father would be at work but Colt would be home as he worked only part-time at the local library (as I had expected Father had insisted that he give up his 'second job' once things had become serious between the two of them). My wife was I knew not completely happy with what she called the Arrangement between Colt and my father but she accepted it because she knew I did. Also she had made five shillings off me that time when they had come downstairs at our wedding looking as if.... 

Damnation, they really were terrible!

I found Colt looking unusually worried. He was fifty-one now, still handsome but with his hair almost uniformly silver. Neither he nor my father had ever had much in the way of looks but they loved each other and that was what really mattered. Even if Colt had a hickey that meant my father.... as I said, just terrible.

“This bank thing is very bad, Peter”, he said gravely. “Your father may be ruined!”

I was shocked.

“How?” I asked. “I thought that he was doing well?”

“You remember the financial crash last year?” he said. “Your father lost some money in that and he was advised to invest in gold, which is supposed to be a safer investment over time. Except the gold stolen from the bank the other day was his pension. He may be left with nothing!”

“I would always support him, and you”, I said firmly. “Surely he is insured, or the bank was?”

“They are saying that there is a problem with the paperwork”, he sighed. “You know how these big institutions are. They know full well that little people like us can never challenge them.”

I smiled knowingly.

“But sometimes we little people know some good big people who can take on the bad big people”, I said. “Is my father out just now?”

He smiled too.

“He needed comforting after the news this morning”, he said. “He is, uh, still upstairs.”

I frowned.

“Surely not this late in the day....”

I stopped. Too late I had gotten it. So, I suspect, had my father! I shook my head at Colt who was smirking far too loudly again. Really, at his age!

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It seemed odd that it was two decades since I had gone to request the help of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then he and his friend Doctor Watson had been living in Cramer Street, and I knew that soon after that they had moved to the address that would become synonymous with them, 221B Baker Street. They had had many hair-raising adventures some of which the doctor had shared with the general public; I remember Mr. Holmes assuring me afterwards that mine would not be one of them unless I gave my permission and that I could not do that anyway until I had attained my majority. I had eventually decided against, society then being what it was, but attitudes were changing now that we were in a new century. Mostly for the better in my opinion.

Baker Street was a busy place and near its northern end almost opposite the Park I found 221B, a handsome building that was very clearly originally part of a much larger one as it had the identical 221 and 221A adjoining it. I knocked at the door and was admitted, and was soon being shown into the gentlemen's room. They were much nicer than the Cramer Street ones that I remembered, but the cow-eyes these two kept giving each other – seriously! That made three gentlemen that I had seen with hickeys that day, as I had not seen my father..... no, I was not thinking about that! 

I would be back in therapy again at this rate!

“I am here to request your help over the Dunston's Bank Robbery”, I said, sitting down. “It concerns the theft of a large number of gold bars which I am sure affects many people, one of whom is my father.”

“How is your father?” Mr. Holmes asked politely. “We saw him and Mr. Hamlin walking in the Park the other week but we were in a carriage _en route_ to a meeting with a client, so we could not stop.”

“As disgustingly in love as ever”, I sighed. “The way Colt stole the last piece of sausage off Father's plate at breakfast when I was round there the other week, and the look he got when he did it – I just shook my head at them both.”

Doctor Watson coughed, and I was sure that I once again heard the word 'bacon' being muttered. Mr. Holmes looked sharply at him before turning back to me.

“Do you know anything about your father's financial arrangements?” he asked.

“I asked Colt when he told me about it”, I said. “He said that last year Father had had to get a new financial adviser because the old one had retired. A Mr. Selmer I think he said the new one was; he was not sure of the spelling. Colt did not like him and he himself did not use the fellow.”

“The name is unfamiliar”, Mr. Holmes said, “but I can soon find out about him. I was surprised to read that Dunston's had been the victims of a robbery; I had always thought them one of the better banks.”

“Father works for the London City & Midland which is in the process of buying Dunston's”, I said. “I was not sure if that is important, but Colt said to tell you anyway as you say that you need all the facts.”

“He is quite correct”, I said. “I shall make some inquiries and contact you through your card. I take it that your wife is well?”

I frowned.

“She is expecting our latest child next month”, I said. “Unfortunately we are to be plagued with a visit from her mother beforehand. The woman has one of those voices that make chalk being scraped on a blackboard sound almost pleasant! I wanted to hide out at the club but with Edie in her current state I cannot. I shall just have to rely on some good ear-plugs.”

“I shall do my best for you”, Mr. Holmes promised.

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There was a minor social event later that week, the wedding of one of father's friends which he felt obliged to attend. Worse, because the parents of the intended were so straight-laced that they could have sold corsets, he was unable to take Colt. It was only a short walk from Father's house so he had walked there and I had arranged for a telegram to be sent informing him of an urgent family matter that required his attendance after but a few hours of suffering, for which he thanked me when I met him at his house later. He looked very down, I thought as he pushed his way onto Colt's lap.

“Cheer up”, Colt said. “Things could be worse.”

“How?” my father asked morosely. One of the gentlemen that he had met at the affair had mentioned that he knew Colt from his, ahem, previous career and asked if my father rented him out at all. Father had not been best pleased and had told him where he could shove his request.

Colt smirked.

“Well, I could always tell Peter why the boys at the house called you Cuddle Bunny!”

Yes, _that_ successfully distracted Father. A very red-faced Father. Who was living up to his nickname without even being aware of it, and who when I looked pointedly at him just cuddled even closer into his love!

How I had managed to grow up so normal was frankly a miracle of the first order!

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The following week Mrs. Joyce Bay-Black arrived and installed herself in our spare room (I had suggested the coal-bunker but Edie had just Looked at me). Impossibly my mother-in-law was even worse than I had remembered and I was never so glad that Mr. Holmes sent me a telegram that morning that he had some news for me. Although I knew that my temporary escape would cost me a large box of chocolates for abandoning my wife to sustained ear-ache.

Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson received me at Baker Street. Well, Mr. Holmes did. The doctor looked in very poor shape and visibly winced as he sat down at the table. I did not need either Mr. Holmes's mile-wide smirk or the pointedly open window to know what had happened in here earlier that morning. At their ages!

“I have hopes that we may be able to bring your father's financial adviser to justice”, Mr. Holmes said. “My sources have been checking to see who those stolen gold bar were sold to, and they have come out with a long list.”

“Is selling gold bars illegal?” I asked.

“It is if you sell more than twice the number of bars that you actually have, then stage a fake robbery to hide your crimes”, he smiled. “I believe that that was the actual reason for the supposed robbery, to cover up such fraudulent behaviour. Have you seen the newspaper this morning?”

I blushed.

“I did not”, I said. “I had your telegram, and what with my mother-in-law at full volume I abandoned the 'Times' to come here.”

“Mr. Selmer is in France”, he said.

“That is terrible!” I fretted “We may never get the money back. Father will be ruined!”

“I think not”, he said mysteriously. “I hope that we can get this case wrapped up in a week or so, although I may have to call on you at short notice.”

“For Father and Colt I will be ready”, I promised. “Especially if it gets me out of my mother-in-law's screeching distance!”

Both men smiled, although I caught the doctor wincing as he stood up at my departure. Really, as if I did not have to put up with enough of that sort of thing already!

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The following Saturday I called on on my father again, hoping to find him decent. Even though it was not short of lunch-time he was still in his dressing-gown, as was Colt. And did Father really have to sit almost right on top of the fellow like that?

“It is very good of Mr. Holmes to help us out”, my father smiled. “He is a most helpful gentleman.”

“As well as always full of 'helpful' ideas!” Colt grinned mischievously. “That catalogue for a certain shop near him was _so_ inspirational!”

My father blushed fiercely. I just shook my head at Colt.

“Why did my father employ you in the first place?” I wondered.

The bastards both sniggered at me and cuddled even closer. Really!

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My concern about Father's finances was matched by the fact that the likely resolution to this case loomed perilously close to Edie's due date. However I was to be spared that particular problem thanks to of all people, my mother-in-law!

Three days after I had visited Mr. Holmes, Colt came round looking very worried.

“Your father was called in by those stuffed suits who run his bank”, he told me. “They had somehow heard about his financial problems and told him that he was 'letting their noble institution down'.”

“That is rich coming from a bunch of thieves who are not in gaol only because they skate around the edges of the law”, I said, sighing as Edie and the Motormouth entered the room. “Are you all right, dear?”

“No better for seeing her father-in-law's bit on the side”, Mrs. Uncongeniality snarked. 

I was not sure how Colt might respond to that (all right, I admit that I _was_ hoping for violence), but I would never know. At that moment my beloved faltered and all but fell onto the couch.

“Edie?” I said anxiously.

“It is coming!” she gasped. 

“It cannot come now”, the shrew beside her said dismissively. “It is not time yet. Just hold it in, girl.”

“Shut up, you silly old tart.”

All three of us stared at Colt in astonishment. Had he really said that?

“How _dare_ you address a lady like that!” the old dragon shrieked.

“I see only one lady in this room and it is not you!” Colt snapped before turning to me. “Peter, send a servant to get your doctor and another to get towels and hot water. Mrs. Wolf, do you feel capable of making it to a bed?”

“I had the spare one downstairs made up”, I put in. My wife nodded.

“My daughter.....” began someone with whom I was fast losing patience. Colt strode across the room and she stepped back in alarm.

“Remove yourself to your room, woman”, he said angrily. “You are upsetting a _real_ lady.”

Mercifully the harridan flounced off at that, and I rushed to open the door leading towards the spare room.

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The next hour of my life was bordering on the surreal. Colt was the consummate professional in arranging everything and I could see that he was making my wife happier, or at least as happy as a lady in her situation could be. The baby seemed intent on making a rapid entrance into the world but thankfully Doctor Alcester arrived in quick order and helped to further soothe poor Edie.

Incredibly my mother-in-law had taken such offence at Colt's words that she had ordered her things packed and placed in the hall ready for her immediate departure (and with her own daughter in labour!) unless That Dreadful Man came out and said sorry to her. Colt did indeed go to the door and said two things to her, the second one of which was 'off' (I caught Edie giving him a thumbs-up for that, despite her rather obvious preoccupations). And then I had a newborn son, who was screaming his general displeasure at the world until Edie gave him his first meal. I held her and thanked both Doctor Alcester and Colt for everything. 

“I would like to name him now”, Edie said suddenly. “If that is all right, Peter.”

She had chosen the names for all but our eldest son, but I could deny her nothing after what we had both been through. Although I prayed fervently that her choice would not relate in any way to the number seven!

“Of course”, I said bravely. “What were you thinking?”

She looked at my father's beloved friend.

“Kay‡”, she said. 

I handed Colt a tissue. Because.

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Edie insisted on Colt being formally asked to be godfather for his namesake, so the following day I went round to my father's house to see him. Jameson (smirking far too much for any servant) told me that they were both still upstairs – ye Gods, it was nearly lunchtime! – and he did not know when they might be down, so I wrote a short note and left it for them. I had already learned from bitter experience not to inquire too closely into things in the house that I had grown up in; the last time I had observed a curious emblem on Colt's cuff-links he had smirked while explaining that it was a letter T 'impaled' by a 'C'. Honestly!

I was however fated to be pushed even closer to that therapist's chair. I was about to leave when I spotted something protruding under from the couch. Curious, I went over and pulled it out and.....

Oh no, what had I done to deserve this fresh hell? A pair of frilly purple panties and sewn into the back, one of those name-tags one usually finds in a schoolboy's uniform – except that this one read 'Thomas Wolf'!

At that moment the door opened and my father came through, followed inevitably (and far too closely) by Colt. My father smiled at me in welcome, but his expression changed very quickly when he saw what I was holding. He looked utterly mortified!

“I do not suppose you found the blue pair as well?” Colt said hopefully.

I glared murderously at the pair of them. Seriously, this was my life?

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“I feel out of place here.”

Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson had arranged to meet me in the Bank of England itself, and we were sat in a building where even the waiting-room had a ceiling decorated with painted cherubs. Mr. Holmes smiled.

“This is the Pecuniary Committee”, he explained. “They oversee all the city banks, and sometimes act if one fails or looks like failing.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it can be like a domino effect”, he said. “If one goes down it damages confidence in the others. Today they are reviewing the recent theft at Dunston's Bank and seeing if they need to step in and rescue it.”

“Will they?” I wondered.

“They will not”, he said confidently.

I was going to ask how he knew but at that moment the huge doors at the end of the room – seriously, one could have gotten an elephant through them! – opened and we were bade enter. Inside was an even grander room which seemed a mile long, at the end of which was a set of tables arranged in a 'U' shape. Intimidating and effective.

“These people allow the likes of us in?” I whispered to Doctor Watson.

“Sherlock has enough to send over half of them to gaol!” he grinned.

Mr. Holmes reached the centre of the 'U' and bowed to the chairman. There were six people sat either side of him, all stuffed suits and none of them were in even the remotest danger of dying from hunger any time soon. Almost all of them were, I noted, looking warily at Mr. Holmes.

“I thank you for allowing me to speak with you today”, he said. “Certain recent developments concerning the theft at Dunston's Bank, both immediately after and as recently as this morning, have necessitated my presence here.”

The chairman nodded at him.

“Pray proceed, sir”, he intoned.

“I at first thought Dunston's to be just another bank robbery”, Mr. Holmes said, “undesirable as such events are. It so happened however that I am acquainted with one of the gentlemen affected by it so I made inquiries on their behalf. The first thing I found was that the gold bars that had until recently been in the bank's vaults had in fact been sold more than twice over, which I believe was the reason for the robbery. The fact that Dunston's is in the process of being taken over by the London City & Midland Bank also complicated matters, and as I dug deeper I became more suspicious.”

One of the stuffed suits stood up, an oily-looking slick-haired fellow of about fifty years of age.

“I do hope”, he said in a nasal tone, “that you are not impugning the reputation of _my_ bank, sir.”

Mr. Holmes smiled.

“Dunston's themselves did not appear to have any obvious motive in this matter”, he said. “Their reputation for security was tarnished, although as they would shortly be subsumed into a larger institution that did not really matter. But as we all know, absence of motive is not the same as motive. It seemed, Mr. Crawley, that your own London City & Midland Bank did not seem to benefit either. I puzzled over the matter for some time – then I had an idea.”

“I first looked at the vanished Mr. Selmer who, I suspected, it would be very easy to find. Indeed he was. Philip Selmer is working at a Paris branch of a British bank – except that he has been there these past three years during which time he has never left France! The French police confirmed for me that he has recently been the recipient of several large cheques from a certain bank in this country – I shall not name them although I am sure all you assembled here can guess which one it was – and that under questioning he has named names. The adviser who provided his customers with 'Mr. Philip Selmer, London City & Midland Bank' cards was in fact a chimaera, someone whose sole purpose in life was to defraud as many people as possible into buying gold – which people are particularly wont to do after a crash – and to then disappear along with both the cash and the gold.”

“You are not, I hope, impugning Mr. Crawley's good name?” the chairman asked archly.

“I am afraid that the gentleman currently standing may have some explaining to do, and not just to this committee”, Mr. Holmes said. “For one thing, the Metropolitan Police arrested his son Uriah this morning and he has already confessed to playing the part of the chimaeric Mr. Selmer. He also confessed to rather more.”

He nodded to Doctor Watson who produced an envelope and walked up to the chairman. He took out a photograph and placed it on the table before withdrawing.

“I did not believe that the thieves would risk transporting gold across our city when there was no need”, Mr. Holmes said, eyeing Mr. Crawley. “This is a photograph of the cellars beneath the building that adjoins Dunston's Bank, and which rather coincidentally seems to be have become home to a lot of gold bars of late. They have I am pleased to tell you since been removed to a place of safety. I also found out who owns that neighbouring property, despite his having purchased it under an assumed name.” 

He looked hard at the man standing before adding, “one Mr. Ahab Crawley.”

The fellow sank back down, eyeing the detective hatefully.

“Now”, Mr. Holmes said firmly, “we come to the unsavoury part of my job. Much as I would wish to see the Crawleys face the consequences of their actions, we assembled here all know that with the markets the way they are just now another scandal would cause a crash and for many innocent people to suffer. I am prepared to use my influence to allow this man to flee the country with his family – _under certain conditions.”_

The chairman looked around at his colleagues, all of whom nodded. Many of them quite fervently, I noted.

“Say on”, the chairman said. 

“The Bank of England will honour the full value of the investments of the people duped by this ramp”, he said. “I do mean the _full_ value, otherwise I may be tempted to extend my inquiries to see which other institutions knew about this deal. That could lead to a large number of arrests, maybe even of those.... at the very top of things?”

He looked pointedly around the room. Not one of this rogues' gallery could meet his eyes. So much for the great and the good.

“Of course”, the chairman said with a blatantly false smile. “Anything else?”

Mr. Holmes looked at him sharply. He visibly cringed.

“More than one of my friends has remarked that the only difference between rich people and criminals is that the former know how to skate around the edges of the law without falling in”, he said pointedly. “Be assured, gentlemen, that if there are any more 'incidents' like this then I shall undertake a full and searching inquiry into every institution represented here today. And regardless of the consequences I _shall_ make my findings public. Have a good day.”

With that he swept from the room, with us in his wake.

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I knew, because Mr. Holmes told me later, that he also had a word with the men in charge of my father's bank as he feared (from experience, he told me) that they might seek retribution against him for his being involved in this matter. Fortunately none ensued, and my father was delighted when all his money was safely returned to him.

Although I really could have done without being told by Colt, round to see his new godson, just how they had 'celebrated' their success. Him _and_ his 'Cuddle Bunny'!

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_Notes:_   
_† Neptune had been discovered in 1846 because of variations in the orbit of Uranus, but it would turn out in this case that the variations in Neptune's orbit were just miscalculations and not caused by a fifth giant planet. Pluto, discovered in 1930, was then estimated to be some 9,300 miles in diameter, about 15% larger than Earth. Subsequent measurements kept reducing that to the point that one wag quipped it might well be the first ever planet to disappear! Today (2020) it is estimated to be a little over 1,400 miles across and its large satellite Charon about half that. It has been reclassified as a dwarf planet, because the International Astronomical Union are idiots._   
_‡ The Arthurian knight Sir Colgrevance was most likely some sort of relation to King Arthur's foster brother and seneschal (steward) Sir Kay. This is because Colgrevance derives from 'Kay The Gallant', and the knight after whom this character was named was courteous, charming and everything that Sir Kay was palpably not._

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	13. Case 335: The Adventure Of The Three Garridebs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Sherlock investigates a case where two of the beneficiaries of a will have met unfortunate ends – and once again the two face a dramatic showdown on a Kentish railway station. But all is not what it seems (when is it ever?).

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Apart from allowing me to go to town on his body to mark my fiftieth birthday that year, which meant that I spent much of that winter alternatively ruing and having happy memories over, Sherlock had allowed that unfortunate mile-stone in my life to pass quietly. I did not want him to buy anything for me that when I looked at in future years, would keep reminding me just how old I had been when I had received it, though I was somewhat surprised (and perversely a little disappointed) that he had agreed to my request so readily.

All right, do not say it. I really _was_ that stupid!

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The young gentleman sat in the famous fireside chair in Baker Street that mid-September morn was fairly nondescript. In his mid- to late twenties, his dark blond hair already showed signs of thinning and was still drying out from the sharp shower which had evidently caught him on his way here. Mr. Nowell Calgary was every inch what his calling-card had proclaimed him to be, a clerk working for a notable firm of lawyers in Mile End, east London. The only unusual thing about him had been his opening statement concerning the reason for his visit.

“I am afraid that my fellow clerk is about to murder our employer!”

That had earned him a quizzical raise of the eyebrows from Sherlock and I had stopped taking notes to make sure that I had heard him correctly. He duly repeated what he had said and his earnest expression seemed only to back up his unusual statement.

“”Why do you think that, sir?” Sherlock asked sitting back. Our guest took a deep breath.

“It is a weird story”, he said. “It starts with a rich Dutch merchant, a Mr. Willem Garrideb, whose family moved to London in 1840. He later shifted the centre of his operations from the Netherlands to England. However, although he was successful in business he was unlucky in love; all three of his marriages ended in divorce, the last one particularly badly.”

“From those marriages Mr. Garrideb had six sons and three daughters, so one might have presumed the line to have been securely established. He did not however value any of his offspring much and upon his death last year – he lived to be nearly ninety by the way – the only relative that he had any dealings with was his grandson and my employer Mr. Jefferson Garrideb, which was how our company ended up administering the estate.”

Our client paused for breath.

“I myself had thought Mr. Willem Garrideb would turn to the next generation, his great-grandchildren of whom there were thirteen at the time of his passing with another on the way. Instead he developed certain, ahem, prejudices, which emerged upon his death last year in a most remarkable will. As expected the estate was to be equally divided between all his blood descendants – but there was a catch.”

“There usually is”, I remarked. Sherlock smiled at my cynicism.

“In fact there were several catches”, our visitor said. “Firstly the beneficiaries had to not be Catholics; Mr. Willem Garrideb's third wife had converted to that faith and I believe that that had been a factor in that marriage's unpleasant collapse. Secondly the beneficiaries had to be a male Garrideb; several family members had displeased him by Anglicizing their names to Guard. I have known that sort of thing before but, unusually, this time there was a prohibition on those under-age; normally such people are allowed to inherit if they change their name upon attaining their majority. Thirdly, beneficiaries had to be the offspring of an extant marriage.”

Sherlock somehow spotted my confusion even though I was not looking at him.

“Legally that means the beneficiary's parents had to either have been married or to have ended their marriage by the death of their partner”, he said. “Like we had with Inspector Baldur's Edinburgh inheritance; divorce or even a separation would debar someone from inheriting. A cunning and effective way to rule out his own immediate offspring.”

“As things turned out they all predeceased him anyway”, our visitor said, “his youngest son dying only two months before him after which he made his last will. That last clause was however unfortunate, at least for my employer. Shortly before Mr. Willem Garrideb died, my employer Mr. Jefferson suffered a split with his lady wife and they were separated at the time of the death. That means of course that neither of my employer's two young sons can inherit; upon Mr. Jefferson's death his inheritance will revert to the estate. Fortunately they are back together again now, the misunderstanding having been cleared up.”

I prided myself that I noted Sherlock's raised eyebrows at that although I had no idea why he found it so interesting. Sadly that sort of thing did happen these days.

“How old is your employer, may I ask?” he said.

“He is around forty-five years of age”, our visitor said. “He married only a few years ago; his wife is about the same age although as she never comes to the office I know little of her. Their sons are twins and were born last year.”

“It all sounds very complicated”, I said. “I can see one problem straight away. Was there not a conflict of interest for your employer? The more Garrideb beneficiaries that he found, the less his own share would be.”

“Mr. Willem Garrideb had thought of that too”, our visitor explained. “He was very thorough, unlike so many who undertake the process these days, I might say. A large sum was set aside for my employer's efforts and he had not only to spend it all but to render full accounts of his expenditure to three independent trustees. But Mr. Jefferson is far too honest to have done anything less than his best, even considering the prize on offer.”

“Do you know the actual value of the estate?” Sherlock asked.

“It was a little in excess of twenty thousand pounds† after various minor gifts to servants and a charity back in the Netherlands”, Mr. Calgary said. “There was one other condition although it did not affect the number of beneficiaries after the earlier ones had been applied; if the recipient was of age then they had to be in at least half-time employment at the moment of Mr. Willem Garrideb's death. Mr. Jefferson was, after a great effort, able to locate two cousins who qualified. Each joined my employer in receiving just under seven thousand pounds gross; Mr. Andrew Garrideb who was a banker in Norwich, and Mr. John Garrideb who was a doctor at a hospital in Barnstaple down in Devonshire. Both were in their early twenties.”

“Was and were?” I asked, picking up on the past tense. He looked at me gravely.

“Three months ago Mr. John Garrideb was murdered on his way home from work”, our guest said. “It was about midday when the attack took place. The hospital said that he would have been very tired after working a double shift so he would probably not have been able to defend himself very well. The police could find no motive for the attack.”

He looked at us awkwardly before continuing. 

“One of the terms of the inheritance was that as the firm managing the estate we had to undertake periodic visits to the beneficiaries to make sure that they still fulfilled the conditions”, he said. “Mr Willem Garrideb had a pathological fear of someone killing his heirs and taking their place – I recall my employer saying that a psychic had warned him of such a nonsensical thing happening – so he had insisted on at least three checks at random times each year on each beneficiary and that the beneficiaries not be alerted to that fact. The clerk I was telling you about, Mr. Hempton Black, was delegated to go and see the two other Garridebs. He was visiting Mr. John Garrideb on the day that he was killed.”

I whistled through my teeth.

“Let me hazard a wild guess here”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Black just happened to be visiting Mr. Andrew Garrideb when something befell that gentleman?”

Our visitor nodded.

“Someone switched his tablets and he was poisoned with the replacements”, he said. He hesitated before adding, “I know that Hemmy has a book about poisons on his bookshelf which I saw one time when I was there, but when I looked recently it had gone.”

“Wait a minute”, I said. “What about motive? Mr. Black cannot stand to gain by this, surely?”

“That is what I do not understand”, Mr Calgary said wringing his hands. “I like Hemmy; he is quiet enough but a good sort underneath the bad jumpers. But the facts..... well, I am nervous, gentlemen.”

I thought of Sherlock's own fascination for terrible winter wear some of which he knitted himself, and smiled to myself.

“Do you think that this Mr. Black may be of the impression that your employer might leave his business, or at least a share of it, to him?” Sherlock asked, looking sharply at me for some reason.

Our visitor nodded.

“I wondered if that might be motive”, he admitted. “But he has sons of his own who will inherit it now, and besides, Hemmy just does not seem the sort to go round murdering people!”

“Few murderers do”, Sherlock said sagely. “I have another important question. Now that Mr. Jefferson Garrideb is the sole beneficiary of a huge estate that his sons can no longer inherit, who benefits when _he_ passes on?”

“I should have explained that none of the beneficiaries received all the money 'up front' as they say”, Mr. Calgary said, yet again looking apologetically at us (he definitely had the face for that). “The arrangement was a capital shift, in that their inheritance would be paid into a deposit account and that they would receive ten per cent of it per annum for the next ten years, receiving the interest accrued once that period was up. If – God forbid! – there are no beneficiaries living then the trustees are empowered to spend up to one-tenth of the value of the estate searching for more Garridebs and would be allowed to include the descendants of Mr. Willem Garrideb's sole brother Mauritz, who had been disinherited under the original will. Should they still fail – the same rules as before would still apply to any that they did find – then the money goes to four charities in equal proportions.” 

_And Mr. Hempton Black would have many years to enrich himself in the meantime_ , I thought acidly.

“Has anyone inquired yet as to if there are any such descendants?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head for some reason.

“Mr. Jefferson ordered a full search once he realized that there were only three beneficiaries to start with”, our visitor said. “Indeed the Fates seem to have proven him wise to have done so. Perhaps surprisingly, although Mr. Mauritz Garrideb had five sons none of his descendants did qualify, so the charities will benefit when my employer passes.”

“Your employer sent Mr. Black to see these gentlemen”, Sherlock said. “Is he the senior clerk or you?”

“I am, sir”, Mr. Calgary said, “Do you think that you may be in a position to help?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Calgary”, he said hesitantly, “client confidentiality is as important in my line of work as it is in yours, if not more so. I am currently engaged in a most delicate matter involving a certain member of Continental royalty and I am expecting certain news that I requested and which I expect to come in some time in the next two days, whereon most likely I shall have to act immediately. I may even have to visit the Continent, exasperating as that is just now. I wish that I were free but I cannot attend directly to your case before Friday at the earliest, although I shall of course initiate certain lines of inquiry by the telegraphic system. I hope that that is acceptable.”

“I have to travel to Dover on business on that same day and will be meeting my employer, who is returning from France”, our visitor said with a sigh. “I do not suppose that anything will happen while he is out of the country, or at least I hope not. Friday afternoon at my offices would be fine.”

He placed a card on the table and I noted the address, a medium-quality one near the Tower. He then bowed and left.

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Sherlock waited until some few moments after he had gone before leaping to his feet. I would have asked why he had lied about our having an important case just then but he looked to be in a hurry.

“I must go”, he said. “It may be too late but I need to move now.”

“Why?” I asked, confused. 

“To save a man's life”, he said. 

“But Mr. Jefferson Garrideb is in France”, I reminded him. “Unless you think that he may be attacked on the boat coming back, or the train?”

“It is not he whose life is in danger”, Sherlock said taking up the card that our visitor had just left. “Go to the window and tell me if our visitor has left yet.”

I did so.

“He is just getting into a cab”, I said feeling increasingly bewildered.

“It is fortunate that I have a contact close to there who is suitable”, he said, hurrying over to the door. “I shall not be long.”

He was gone before I could ask for any further explanation. I stared after him in confusion. Looking out of the window I saw him fairly sprint across the road to the post-office and wondered who he was wiring.

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The following morning Mr. Calgary was shown into our rooms just after nine o' clock looking decidedly dishevelled. It was not as bad as Sherlock first thing in the morning – in nearly thirty years together I had yet to find anything that even came close – but it was far from his spruce appearance the day before.

“Hemmy refuses to come to work!” he snapped as if this development were somehow our fault. “Someone went to the company offices while I was here yesterday and threatened him, and now he says that he is terrified. I called at his house but his landlady said that he had already moved out and not left a forwarding address!”

Sherlock tutted as if this was some minor inconvenience. 

“I managed to make some inquiries in this case”, he said casually, pouring himself his fifth coffee of the morning (him and his iron bladder!). “There was one small detail that you did not tell me yesterday, sir, and as things turned out it was rather important.”

“Sir, I assure you...”

“When I asked you if a search had been carried out for any descendants of Mr. Mauritz Garrideb who might inherit on your employer's death, you told me that it had been undertaken and none had been found.”

“Well... yes.” 

Our visitor looked as bewildered as I felt. Sherlock fixed him with a look.

“You did not mention that your colleague Mr. Black was the gentleman who carried out that search.”

“Yes, but....”

“In the event of your employer's untimely demise, the trustees may not have to look very far for one of Mr. Mauritz Garrideb's descendants who qualified for an inheritance”, Sherlock said. “In fact they could lighten their workload considerably by looking straight at your colleague.”

Our visitor's face went white.

 _“Hemmy?”_ he gasped. My friend nodded.

“I contacted a friend who has rapid access to such things and he read the exact wording of the will to me”, Sherlock said. “As so often, it was not what people might have thought. The phraseology only requires that a beneficiary be _officially_ titled Mr. Garrideb. It does not preclude him from calling himself something else to those around him, provided that his birth certificate remained unaltered. A beneficiary could call themselves Mr. Abracadabra Zymurgia Infinity-Codswallop if he so wished, provided he did not seek to _officially_ change his name. Or he could call himself, say....”

He looked pointedly at our visitor who slumped into a chair.

 _“Mr. Hempton Black!”_ he said dully. “Oh Lord!”

“In reality Mr. Henry Garrideb, son of Mr. William Garrideb and Miss Patricia Sewell”, Sherlock said. “The former Miss Sewell's home town of Banbury is not far from the village of Hempton, from which he took his alias.”

Mr. Calgary gladly accepted the whisky that I poured for him, and frankly looked more than capable of taking another.

“But if he did make a claim, then surely everyone would know that he had killed those men!” he said, clearly trying to rebalance his suddenly topsy-turvy world.

“English juries tend to require rather more in the way of facts than someone happening to be in the area when a murder occurred”, Sherlock said grimly, “no matter what their motive may or may not be. No, if we are to flush a killer out then I am very much afraid that we will need...... bait.”

Our visitor looked at us in confusion before the words registered.

“Mr. Jefferson?” he snorted. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Mr. Calgary, until this multiple murderer is behind bars your employer is in mortal danger”, Sherlock said firmly. “Now, you said that he is returning to Dover on Friday. From Calais?”

Mr. Calgary nodded. “The morning ferry”, he said. “I am meeting him at the station there and we will travel to London together.”

“Will he reach the station first, or you?” Sherlock asked. 

Mr. Calgary thought, then went even paler. I knew his answer before he spoke.

“He said he would be there by eleven”, he said, ashen-faced, “but the train I was planning to take does not get in until a quarter past. And I told Hemmy that when he asked me last week!”

“Consider it from the murderer's viewpoint, if you can”, Sherlock said pointedly. “All that stands between you and all that money, in a small railway carriage standing at an English platform......”

Our visitor shuddered.

“What do you suggest that I should do?” he asked.

“Be circumspect”, Sherlock advised. “Go about your business as usual. You may be followed on Friday just to make sure that you are on the train; after all, the stakes are very high here. If you do see someone, for your employer's sake ignore them otherwise the murderer will not do what I expect him to do.”

“Which is?” Mr. Calgary asked.

“Attempt to murder your employer”, Sherlock said calmly.

The man looked as if he was about to faint.

“Do not worry”, my friend said. “I will have a network of people in place on the day, all highly-paid professionals. I can all but guarantee Mr. Jefferson Garrideb's personal safety.”

“What about your Continental thing?” our visitor asked.

“Fortunately that has unfolded better than I had hoped”, Sherlock said. “I may still have to act but I now know that I can do so by telegraph and from here. All will be well.”

Mr, Calgary did not look convinced.

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On Thursday afternoon Sherlock and I adjourned to Victoria for a South Eastern & Chatham Railway train to Dover. It would have been slightly faster to go from Charing Cross, but Sherlock must have remembered that that line passed through Tonbridge. That town would forever raise bad memories for me but I still had my man.

We reached Dover and settled into a hotel for the night. It was quite fortuitous that there were seagulls screeching outside for much of it, as it hid the screeching coming from inside as Sherlock managed to drag three orgasms in succession out of what remained of my blissed-out body. He was concerned when I had tears in my eyes afterwards but I kissed him until he understood that they were tears of happiness. I would have told him, but words were a bit beyond me just then.

The following morning we – well, Sherlock and what was left of me – headed to the station where we were to meet Mr. Calgary who had come in on an earlier train than first planned. From the look of him he had not slept much.

“You were right”, he said. “There was someone waiting outside my house this morning and he followed me in a cab all the way to Charing Cross. As you said I went early and managed to just catch a faster train, so lost him. I have found Mr. Garrideb, and have left him safe and secure in his compartment. Is all well with you, gentlemen?”

“I think so”, Sherlock smiled. “I am sorry that we are a little late but we still have ten minutes before departure.”

Mr. Calgary seemed about to say something when he glanced over Sherlock's shoulder, and his face froze.

“I do not believe it!” he hissed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You said that you were watching him!” he hissed at Sherlock. “That is him!”

“Who?” I asked,

He gestured along the platform to where a short man in dark glasses and a black long-coat was glancing over his newspaper at us.

“Hemmy!”, Mr. Calgary hissed. “I would know that coat of his anywhere!”

“Mr. Calgary....” Sherlock began.

“I have to get to Mr. Garrideb!” the clerk said frantically, hurrying to a carriage. 

Sherlock looked pointedly at me and I nodded, racing after the man. We entered the train and barrelled along a corridor until we reached a compartment where a middle-aged gentleman lay apparently asleep. Mr. Calgary moved to enter but I restrained him.

“Something is wrong”, I said urgently. “Wait outside. _And do not let anyone in!”_

He nodded frantically and nearly broke the glass in the door in the fervour with which he pulled it closed. I quickly pulled down the blinds and began my work.

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Five minutes later I emerged to find Sherlock and an ashen-faced Mr. Calgary in the corridor. I slowly shook my head.

“Poison”, I said. “He may have been suffocated before but I cannot be sure of that. A _post mortem_ will surely confirm it.”

“I knew it!” Mr. Calgary growled. “So much for your guarantees, Mr. Holmes! Hemmy killed him!”

“At least I shall have the satisfaction of taking in a murderer today”, Sherlock said calmly, as if this sort of thing happened every day (considering my luck in Kent lately, it certainly seemed like it!). “The police are already in the waiting-room. Shall we go?”

“What about Mr. Garrideb?” Mr. Calgary demanded. “And his killer?”

“All taken care of”, Sherlock said. “I am having the body removed before the train leaves. A killer awaits justice. Let us go.”

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When we reached the waiting-room Mr. Calgary was clearly both surprised and displeased to not find his fellow clerk there. A lone constable nodded to us and remained standing at the door.

“Where is Hemmy?” our client demanded. “You said that they had arrested him?”

“That would be difficult”, Sherlock said. “After all, it is not as if he has murdered anybody.”

Mr, Calgary looked at him as if he were mad.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. I tensed.

“I said that I would arrest a killer”, Sherlock said. “I was referring to _you_ , Mr. Calgary. Before you do anything even more stupid than you have already done, kindly be aware that the hand in the doctor's pocket is currently holding a revolver, and if you force him to fire through his jacket he will not be best pleased. He may aim his first shot low.”

“You are mad!”

“I do not think so”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Calgary – or perhaps I should call you by your _real_ name, the one that you hid from your employer. Mr. Nowell Garrideb!”

“Lies! All lies!” 

The man was frantic now. I steadied my gun.

“You found out about the Garrideb inheritance a long time ago and got yourself employed by your cousin who you knew would most likely end up administering it”, Sherlock said. “Your plan was simple – remove any people between you and the money, then claim all. You even managed to engineer a split between your employer and his wife, thus disinheriting her sons and removing two more rivals; I suppose that we should be grateful you did not kill them too.”

“There was however one problem. You realized that Mr. Black was your cousin and had been employed by Mr. Jefferson as a 'back-stop'. Neither of them knew your true status however, which gave you an advantage. Your plan was simple; remove the other beneficiaries and place the blame for their deaths on a rival who, you made sure, 'just happened' to be around when your rivals died. You also omitted one other not unimportant detail when you told us about the will. Had any beneficiary been convicted of a crime that involved more than a calendar year in jail they would lose their inheritance.”

Mr. Calgary – Mr. Nowell Garrideb – scowled. My finger tightened on the trigger.

“I made some inquiries”, Sherlock said, “and although you did visit clients for your company on the days of the first two murders, you neglected to mention that both meetings were very early in the morning and you would have easily been able to get to where the victims lived. You had you plenty of time to kill your poor, innocent cousins hoping to slew the blame off onto your so-worker, and to then return to London. I dare say that once we had seen you off from this station, 'Mr. Nowell Calgary' would have mysteriously vanished no doubt done to death by the same person who killed your employer. Which reminds me.....”

Sherlock stood up and went over to the door. He opened it and three people came in. Two were policemen, and Mr. Nowell Garrideb's jaw dropped when he saw the third. A very alive Mr. Jefferson Garrideb who stared angrily at his employee.

“I warned Mr. Garrideb by telegram of your murderous intentions”, Sherlock said, “and persuaded the customs officials to draw him aside so that I could have further words with him this morning. He knew full well not to be alone with you, nor to eat or drink anything that you gave him, and I gave him a medication proscribed by the doctor here which he took once you parted and which rendered him unconscious for some time. That is also one of the rare occasions that I have ever heard the good doctor openly lie about a diagnosis, so you did achieve something. You will also be interested to know that the police have secured the coffee that you brought your cousin this morning and are having it tested for poison. I have the strange feeling that that particular test will be positive.”

“I saw Hemmy!” the man moaned. “With my own eyes. He was right here!”

The door opened again and a gentleman came in with a coat over his arm. Sherlock smiled.

“Meet Mr. Maxwell Walborough, a talented actor friend of mine”, he said. “Mr. Black was kind enough to loan us his coat for the day – thank you Mr. Walborough, your own coat is on the rack over there – to complete the illusion. Now I think we have detained the police for long enough and that they have a cell with your name on it. Gentlemen, please?”

Mr. Nowell Garrideb lunged at Sherlock and I did not hesitate. He screamed as a bullet penetrated his leg, and fell to the ground. I did not like doing it, but I bandaged him up (roughly) before the police dragged him away. Another case successfully concluded and we could return to the safety and warmth of our Baker Street rooms.

Ah....

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Postscriptum: Mr. Nowell Calgary duly paid the price for his murderous ways, and the world was a better place without him. Mr. Hempton Black/Mr. Henry Garrideb inherited the Garrideb estate on his cousin Mr. Jefferson's death just before the Great War. Very fairly he only took half of his entitlement, and administered the remainder on behalf of his former employer's twin sons who received their inheritances on their coming of age. He himself rose to an important position in the Civil Service and is now married with a family of his own as well as being a respected philanthropist.

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_Notes:_   
_† Slightly in excess of £2 million ($2.5 million) at 2020 prices._

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	14. Interlude: The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Dreams do come true – given time.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This was it. Months of careful planning having to work extra hard to make sure that John did not find out, and September was here. John looked at me suspiciously when I told him we were spending another night in Dover before heading home, and even more so when we only went as far as Ashford before alighting but I explained that I had another matter to attend to 'along the coast'. In which I spoke true. Sort of.

We had to change again at Eastbourne and John looked even more gloriously confused when we left the Sussex resort and took a slow train towards London. If he pouted.... no, I did not have time for that sort of thing. 

Not on the train, at least.

“I have something to show you”, I said.

“In public?” he asked eagerly. Honestly he was as bad as... me.

When we alighted at Berwick I could see immediately that he had guessed where we were going. A short carriage ride later we were driving into Chuffingden, snug in its dean beneath the Downs. I drove us through the village then on up the hill and turned right along a track that ran breasted the northern side of the dean, ending in a certain small honeysuckle-covered cottage, whose only real failing for now was the singularly unimaginative name. It was otherwise as charming as when I had visited it in secret a few months back to finalize all my arrangements.

“It is as lovely as ever”, he smiled. “Are we here on a case?”

“Not exactly”, I said. “Let us go inside and look. No-one is home just now.”

He looked puzzled but followed me inside.

“Who owns this place?” he asked. “And will they not mind us being here?” 

“The owner is a young gentleman called Mr. Jubal Smith”, I said. “He inherited it from his father some time back but he already has a house up in Cheshire and he cannot do anything with this until his twenty-first birthday, a little under two years from now when he assumes full control of his estates. It became fully his earlier this month once all the legal paperwork was finally sorted.”

“He does not want to live here?” he asked in wonder. “Why ever not?”

“He is happy in his family house”, I explained. “He is selling this place and the new buyers will be able to move in in two years' time. It is rented out for now.”

“Lucky buyers”, he said enviously. 

I turned and took his hands, my blue eyes boring into his green ones.

“Yes”, I said. _“We_ are.”

He blinked in astonishment. I saw his lower lip quivering which I knew only ever happened when he was uncertain about something. I nodded slowly.

“You said not to buy you a present on your birthday this year”, I said with a shy smile. “So I brought you – us – a present on _my_ birthday. I thought two more years in Baker Street and then..... retirement. Randall can make some small amends for his shoddy treatment of us both by covering our tracks, and by making sure that we can live here in peace.”

I honestly thought that he was about to cry as he seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath. Then he all but leaped on me, pressing me back into the wall as I kissed him long and hard our tongues vying for dominance. He was evidently disappointed when I pulled back but I think that my next words made it worthwhile for him.

“This place has one main bedroom”, I panted, myself suddenly short of breath as well. “I suggest that we go there and..... christen it.”

Was it actually possible to die of too much happiness?

He was still stunned by everything and I was able to make it to the bedroom well ahead of him. By the time he caught up I was already lying back on the bed, stark naked with my legs raised and working myself quickly open. John whined in frustration at his own slowness in getting out of his clothes and nearly tore his shirt in trying to get it off, before stumbling over to the bed. I was ready by this time and he was able to thrust straight in. Lord have mercy it was even better than ever! I wrapped his legs around his back – thank Heaven for my innate flexibility – and hoisted myself up to wrap myself around his chest while I was still impaled on his cock.

“Come on John!” I grunted. “This is the first time in what will soon be our new home. Is that _really_ the best you can do?”

He scowled and thrust upwards and I growled and countered with my own thrust down, fully intent on dragging an orgasm of him. We fought for some time before he came with a shout they may well have heard down in the valley. I suppose that that was one way to introduce oneself to the neighbours!

“Wow!” he managed. “I think that Lieutenant-General Sherlock just made General!”

“A deserved promotion”, I said. “That needs a celebration. Ready for Round Two?” 

He glared fondly at me. 

“Typical sex-obsessed consulting detective!” he muttered

“Yes”, I said. “And proud of it!”

He thrust up into me again and I growled appreciatively.

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We barely made the last train to London. We both smiled all the way home – well, our home for now at least.

Twenty-four months to go.

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	15. Interlude: The Newcomers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. In a seemingly unchanging English village, any newcomer is bound to draw attention.

_[Narration by Mr. Humphrey Torrin, Esquire]_

When you're the landlord of the local pub, you're pretty much at the centre of village life. So in a village like Chuffingden where little if anything ever happened, the arrival of two newcomers to the village was something to be monitored to see if it was good or bad. In this case it was definitely good.

We all knew that 'Hill Cottage' had passed to some young fellow somewhere in the North, and that he had put tenants in there until he came of age in a couple of years' time. There was some legal thing delaying matters, but I knew that there had been a couple of offers on the place that had been refused.

Our nearest point of what passed for civilization in those days was the railway station a few miles away at Berwick, and that day Jeff (the cabbie) told me that he had taken two gentlemen to the cottage and arranged to collect them from the village after a couple of hours. I wondered at the time what could have been so exciting about that small place that could occupy them for so long. Let me tell you, it did not take long after their arrival for me to work _that_ one out!

It was a warm day and I was serving out the front with the wife when I saw what had to be the two gentlemen walking down to sit on the bench by the pond. They looked a bit familiar and I asked Dan, the village know-all, if he recognized them. He looked across and nodded.

“That's the detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his friend Doctor John Watson”, he said. 

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“Two reasons”, he grinned. “First, I was at the station when they hired Jeff.”

I scowled at him. As I said, a right know-all!

“Second?” I pressed.

He gestured to behind me. I turned round and stared in astonishment. Bang right next to me, the bloody wife was simpering across the road at the scruffy one! And she let out a sigh before... ye Gods, she was batting her eyelashes at the taller fellow!

“The acid test”, Dan grinned. “Better get used to that if they're moving here, Hump!”

I sighed. It was definitely one of those days.

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End file.
